In this steaming aisle of the dead
I am weeping
to learn the names of those streets
my feet have worn thin with running
and why they will never serve me
nor ever lead me home.
"Don't touch it!" she cries
I straighten myself
in confusion
a drunken woman is running away
down the West Side street
my lover's voice moves
a shadowy clearing.

About weeping angry

A poem for woman in rage, Audre Lorde

María José Crespo