Nella Larsen Crossroads

Kennita Ballard

It’s called passing
To blend in
Living life as not the other
But living life just
To pass through
Get safety from egg to sperm
To the deathbed
Without incident or
Injury to the outside self.
Like an artificial penis an identity is strapped on
With casualness to the causalities
To the numbers of those who choose to speak out
Embraced their stand out
Hang in clusters like strange fruit
The seemingly soul alternative is to choose;
To pass
To be the majoritive’s cuckoo bird
Afforded wings of privilege
By the very cheap nature of passing you can in fact afford it all
For a buy one get one free; mobility and invisibility.

The self has passed on
Rest in peace
and an identity as transparent as the edges of the sky
passes through

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