Ur Maya Angelou The complete poetry, The Detached, Maya Angelou
We die,
Welcoming Bluebeards to our dancing closets,
Stranglers to our outstretched necks,
Stranglers, who neither care nor
care to know that
DEATH IS INTERNAL.
We pray,
Savoring sweet the teethed lies,
Bellying the grounds before alien gods,
Gods, who neither know nor
wish to know that
HELL IS INTERNAL.
We love,
Rubbing the nakedness with gloved hands,
Inverting our mouths in lounged kisses,
Kisses that neither touch nor
care to touch if
LOVE IS INTERNAL.
Photo by Marvin Joseph/The Washington Post