I had crossed the line. I was free; but there was no one to welcome me to the land of freedom. I was a stranger in a strange land. —Harriet Tubman
I am a stranger, still a face no one recognizes, still an excuse to clutch purse first and ask questions later, still a reason to shoot
then investigate, still a reason to attach false crimes to my name. Always a barely human body.
How I arrived here will be a mystery, my capturer repeating the same investigation—how I managed to trudge to freedom after traversing this terrain, like bondage is something I got
over. As if a stump, a hill, a broken heart, like I ain’t belly-crawl and scrape through mud and shit, thousand-mile tunnels to get here.
How did I make it over?
My capturers will ask and wonder— cock their heads to the side perplexed at how my cracked skin and wrinkled brow broke free
and stumbled on the cover of currency. And this gentle arrival will be enough to convict me of fleeing captivity.
How did I make it over?
How does a fugitive arrive? Rope burns still fresh and bleeding bandaged back still raw sullied and soil-covered, and still I made it over.
But I never forget scars etched into my skin or the bounty on my head worth more than the sum of me.