by Donnie Dinklage
I read my heaviest and
most powerful poem to date for the first time at a writer’s group last week.
I’d been saving it up for six months. My hands were shaking. My voice was weak.
But I got it out. It’s entitled Masterstroke. It’s about the feeling of no
feelings, and the memory of no memories.
While I was reading it,
I could hear verbal abuse from outside the library. They voiced awful
lies and racial hatred. Because I’m the kinda guy to let things fly by (even
unprovoked hate crimes), I almost felt guilty for not doing anything. It was a
torrent of public embarrassment. Still, I read on, because names will never
hurt me.
Upon leaving, there was
a police car on the door. Since when was the last time you saw a police car at
a library? I mean come on.
I got the biggest
compliment of my life though, when one member of the group said to another,
after I finished, “You don’t write poems like that without making enemies.”
Despite the sickly
feeling in my stomach over the reality of gang-stalking, I fist-pumped my arm
on the way home.
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