NYU Black Renaissance Noire Winter 2014 - Page 162

Scene 5. At the park around the corner. It is still night. 160 sara: My. Mine. My. Me. Ain’t mine. Again. This is not mine, but it is mine. Other body. Boxes. Scars. Wounded in my box. And it ain’t mine. This womb. My curse and prayer. For Nation-State, crushing my city. Communal body. Personal prayer. Body. This city say it ain’t mine. This city say this ain’t my body. But it is all I ever known. I was born here. My sweat. My bones. My flesh. My heart. If I die, don’t bury me. Don’t bury me in no box. ‘Cause it’s the box that killed me. You box me inside your prayers. Tell me to be this American Dream, but that ain’t a dream that can hold me. I wanna break free from prayers that be curses. Find my freedom in a new door way, open wide. I want to be country, and walk bare foot on broken NationState and hearts of concrete. They say: Cut this body in four quadrants. Make me trinket, safe house, juicy womb, somebody’s other story. Ugly. More beautiful and uglier still. I escape into a whispered place ‘cause my hurt too dirty for the main street. I come unbuttoned, unlaced, while y’all amuse yourselves over me in pieces, your pieces, foul images of what I could never be. Real. Take my life blood, make me your sacred prayer and funky curse. Whodini me, an obsession with boxes, name tags, Nation- State, city scape. Everybody wanna tell me this body ain’t mine or my story. You own me. Make me into the world’s hottest cautionary tale, ‘cause my panties is funky, after a long day’s wo &