What they call you is one thing.
What you answer to is something else.
Lucille Clifton, 1936 – 2010
That night it was her birthday.
We were at the Lighthouse,
a local bar and gathering place.
You were sitting by yourself at
the bar. Not for you and you alone
did I refuse to kiss your angry,
drunken axe, dismiss or ignore
all the times you were wronged,
not heard, demeaned, all the times
you were frightened and confused.
When I came to order at the bar,
what you apparently saw and were
imagining, was not what was actually
there. For your own reasons you were
wanting to hurt, get down, fight.
Full of partying intentions, I was wearing
my favorite old coat, unraveling a bit,
threadbare, and apparently from Bolivia.
When you asked if I was homeless
it was clear you believed I had no
right or reason to be at the bar,
the gathering, or occupy space at all.
It was all very sad and a response was
needed that was not available.
When I answered the fist of your
surprising question, “What are you
homeless,” I could not sanction nor
join yet another confused distraction,
nor support the ignorance that brought
this violence to you that you were now
bringing to me. My factual answer,
“Not at this time.” did not in any way
quiet what was burning in you and the dance
of our random meeting continued in ways
I have now forgotten. Finally someone,
claiming to know each of us, said something
that allowed you to let go, begin to settle back,
release. I was grateful that at on this night,
loathing quieted, no more blood would be lost.