On Stripping Bark From Myself

Every once in awhile, I like to draw a book of poetry off the shelf and open a page at random to see what it holds for me.  A poetic oracle of sorts, like the I Ching, a Magic 8 Ball, a fortune cookie — those devices we sometimes use to reflect our own thoughts and fears and hopes back at ourselves.  The clarifying wisdom lies in the interpretation, yes?  Yes?

Two days ago, I pulled down a collection by Alice Walker, one I hadn’t yet  sat with for any length of time.  The pages fell open, and this poem, new to me (new to you, too?), is what they offered:

ON STRIPPING BARK FROM MYSELF
(for Jane, who said trees die from it)

Because women are expected to keep silent about
their close escapes I will not keep silent
and if I am destroyed (naked tree!) someone will
     please
mark the spot
where I fall and know I could not live
silent in my own lies
hearing their “how nice she is!”
whose adoration of the retouched image
I so despise.

No. I am finished with living
for what my mother believes
for what my brother and father defend
for what my lover elevates
for what my sister, blushing, denies or rushes
to embrace.

I find my own
small person
a standing self
against the world
an equality of wills
I fully understand.

Besides:

My struggle was always against
an inner darkness: I carry within myself
the only known keys
to my death — to unlock life, or close it shut
forever. A woman who loves wood grains, the color
     yellow.
and the sun, I am happy to fight
all outside murderers
as I see I must.

- Alice Walker, from Her Blue Body Everything We Know (1991), originally in Good Night, Willie Lee, I’ll See You In the Morning (1975)