Mixed

Sometimes, 
I am ashamed
of my face,
of what it does not look like.

I am ashamed of the way
light bends across it
and of how it glows less bronze
than it might have
if certain twists of gene and fate
had gone another way.

I had former family and former friends
who often said, “you’re lucky
you’re like this, like this, how
can you not like this?”  They speak

of privileges and passing and 
presentation — how easy, they say,
how much easier;
some say the presentation
is all that counts.

All the while I am beyond mere
sadness, beyond shame.
It’s not those things
I’m feeling.

I can’t tell you
what I’m feeling.  
I can’t say the words
because this nation
and this era 
disallow those words.  

I can’t say I am different
and feel different and 
am not allowed to say
how this is different;

instead I am said to be
and told to feel
lucky or false
or lucky and false.

What I truly want
is a face with which
to face the issues. To face
my issues. A face to match the face 
I daily face inside,
a face I can turn to
and ask about

why I feel so ashamed, and then
to ask directions toward
the country where I
can feel good.