I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and a silver knife, and a silver fork. I would complain about it—the spoon was not greasy, it tasted like braces, my shining access to cosmetic enhancement. And I complained about the taste of my fillings in my very expensive mouth, as if only my family was paying— where did I think the rich got their money but from everyone else? My mother beat me in 4/4 time, and I often, now, rant to her beat—I wear her rings as if I killed her for them, as my people killed, and climbed up over the dead. And I sound as if I am bragging about it. I was born with a spoon instead of a tongue in my mouth—dung spoon, diamond spoon. And who would I be to ask for forgiveness? I would be a white girl. And I hear Miss Lucille, as if on the mountain where I’d stand beside her, and brush away the insects, and sometimes pick one off her, sometimes by the wings, and toss it away. And Lucille is saying, to me, You have asked for enough, and been given in excess. And that thing in your mouth, open your mouth and let that thing go, let it fly back into the mine where it was brought up from the underworld at the price of lives, beloved lives. And now, enough, Shar, now a little decent silence.