I carry a horn, loud, shaped
for handlebars, which I grasp as I tread dark,
wet routes, slow-stepping over puddles 
& black ice, evading Teslas, injury. 

I thumb the trigger when my boot hits
the crosswalk, advance upon alleys, stretch 
my limbs into shapes drivers find familiar—
something vapid & loud. 

Vehicles come at me, cut corners,
skid through wide intersections. I strike 
the horn, toss up its strobe light, a projection 
announcing: I am here. I am walking 
as a person, breathing. 

Drivers fail to yield & I’m lost
for ways to be seen, inhabiting my 
five cubic feet. I stand unheeded, imaginary, 
indistinguishable from air.

Car doors skim my skirt, strangers scuff
the tops of my sneakers with inside shoes, cut 
the line, swipe my seat & say, Oh—I didn’t see 
you. Of all the lies I vet, this wins. 

But here’s a truth: I possess no power
in the performance of living because I look like an enemy,
disfigured in war or stolen to grant a white family’s 
wish, who knelt for American soldiers

& just yesterday was insulted because of my eye
shape, my skin color. The same old thing.
So I wear a horn—a jewel, a gown, glowing orb 
infused with Oriental herbs. I charm & mime, 

illusioning bigness or smallness to meet a tourist’s
assumptions. It’s ridiculous to vibrate this way, 
but it fools & sometimes hushes their impulse
to erase me. 

When I cross the street, wander into a bar, see patrons
haloed by the window’s dirt-light, I conjure the room 
empty & stroll in with ease, press Lee Greenwood on the jukebox.
There’s a punch line here I won’t repeat.