Mowing his three acres with a tractor,a man notices something ahead—a mannequin—he thinks someone threw it from a car. Closerhe sees it is the body of a black woman.Medics come and turn her with pitchforks.Her gaze shoots past him to nothing. Nothingis explained. How many black womenhave been turned up to stare at us blankly,in weedy fields, off highways,pushed out in plastic bags,shot, knifed, unclothed partially, raped,their wounds sealed with a powdery crust.Last week on TV, a gruesome face, eyes bloated shut.No one will say, "She looks like she's sleeping," ropesof blue-black slashes at the mouth. Does anybodyknow this woman? Will anyone come forth? Silencelike a backwave rushes into that fieldwhere, just the week before, four other black girlshad been found. The gritty image bangs in the airjust a few seconds, but it strikes me,a black woman, there is a question being askedabout my life. How can Iprotect myself? Even if I lock my doors,walk only in the light, someone wants me dead.Am I wrong to thinkif five white women had been stripped,broken, the sirens would wail untilsomeone was named?Is it any wonder I walk over these bodiespretending they are not mine, that I do not knowthe killer, that I am just like any woman—if not wanted, at least tolerated.Part of me wants to disappear, to pullthe earth on top of me. Then there is this partthat digs me up with this penand turns my sad black face to the light.