I want less and less to become the knife,
or the white man it wields; only
to have him witness me and call it progress.
I enter the horizon and promise
to keep quiet. I make myself excellent
and imaginary, crawl higher and higher,
land in the fire escape and watch the shadows
in the alley glint, some minor prophet’s
streetlit heaven. I climb up to the roof
and open myself to flight. Cars rushing past
like messiahs, autumn trees no longer
pretending to bloom. I’ll answer
your question: yes, I know my name.
I know where I’m from and why I am
unlikely. I know everything holy is only
a failure of distance; a man, far enough
from his knife, turns into memory. Sometimes
when people say I’m knocking em dead
I remember that everything exemplary I know
or ever will begins with a small girl
on the floor begging please
please make them see me
— Gaia Rajan (from SWWIM)