The bullet grazed my leg
Just a flesh wound
Was it my fault
Did I instigate inflammatory vitriol
Should I apologize for my free associations
The way my pen glides across the page
To the core of dissension
Perhaps it was my skirt
Was it too tight, too short
Hugging the curves of my body
Making you hot and thirsty
The freedom of Alvin Alley dancers
With their legs spread
Opening the flow of free expression
Dancing to the voice of Maya Angelou
The seekers, the marchers, the painters,
The writers
All refugees like me