The following poem was contributed by Cornerstone teacher and assistant professor of English and Creative Writing, Dr. Shelly Sanders.

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Worldview

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Me: 33, female, white, married, believer, doubter. Quiet.

The bitter pill I wouldn’t take
that’s stuck halfway down my esophageal passage
isn’t race at all
nor gender
but a body that won’t do as others do.

I’ll tell you the story sometime
if you ask me, if you really want to listen
and not because you feel you should.

I won’t use words like Alienated or Privileged or People-Treat-People-Terribly-
…Just-Because-They-Are-Different! (though I want to).
I’ll just say (and so should you):
You have no idea.
I might whisper that third word.
Or I might yell it out, really surprise people with fury,
something as rare for me as holding

A strip of film up to the light, the squares of heartache
each a separate story I could tell you:
Here, was when we lost the baby.
Here, was when we remembered how fragile we were.
Here, was when we closed our eyes in the sunlight
outside the rotating hospital door.

“Get-Over-It”
is a curse word in any language.

Me: 33, female, white, married, believer, doubter. Now: Loud.
My lenses are lesions,
the cataracts that help me see people more clearly.
I can ask, “How is it, being you?”
Then I concentrate, open and close my eyes
and try to really listen.