and my heart skips a rhythm that would match
a footfall if I had one. All I have is this thrumming,
this rhythmic roundness, this forward motion but never a step
in my direction.

you say “marginalized”, and I see Venn diagrams,
my friends, in all their uniqueness, overlapping,
people I love—and—support

you say “we want poems from you” but it is almost
never me, and I understand: there are histories
less heard than mine, voices more important than mine,
stories bigger than mine.

I say “let me lead you to the places where they
will love your voice” and break like a wave at the curb.

In 1868, Black Lives began to matter for their
Whole Worth.

In 1867, Ugly Laws, like whispers, spread across
this country, banning the disabled from public view,
unless otherwise deemed “entertaining.” This ugliness
still existed six years before my birth, so I hope, at least,
to entertain you.

I say I am here for all who are otherwise “othered,”
that I will always stand up for them,
well, maybe not stand.
All I ask is that someone stand for me,

for my “other,” my group, the one on the sidelines or
the back of the theater because disability is still
an afterthought. Because access was not law until
two years before I required it and thirty years later,
still not enforced.

You say “We want to open the door to your experience,”
but the door is not wide enough.
___
Isabella J Mansfield (she/her) writes about anxiety, intimacy, and body image both generally and as a woman with a disability. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, two-time Best of the Net Nominee and a Write Bloody McCarthy Prize Honorable Mention, Isabella is always looking for ways to bring a little humor into her deeply personal poems, and is almost never sorry to make you cry. She lives in Howell, Michigan with her husband and son. Instagram and Facebook @isabellajmansfield