There are so many roots to the tree of anger 
that sometimes the branches shatter 
before they bear.
Sitting in Nedicks
the women rally before they march 
discussing the problematic girls 
they hire to make them free.
An almost white counterman passes
a waiting brother to serve them first
and the ladies neither notice nor reject 
the slighter pleasures of their slavery.
But I who am bound by my mirror
as well as my bed 
see causes in color 
as well as sex

and sit here wondering
which me will survive 
all these liberations.

Poet: Audre Lorde
Poem: Who Said It Was Simple
Poem of the Day: Aug 23 2008

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