Words That Burn

poem at thirty, by Sonia Sanchez (1934-)

it is midnight

no magical bewitching

hour for me

i know only that

i am here waiting

remembering that

once as a child

i walked two

miles in my sleep.

did i know

then where i

was going?

traveling. i’m

always traveling.

i want to tell

you about me

about nights on a

brown couch when

i wrapped my

bones in lint and

refused to move.

no one touches

me anymore.

father do not

send me out

among strangers.

you you black man

stretching scraping

the mold from your body.

here is my hand.

i am not afraid

of the night.