you are
a petulant child
negotiating indefensible positions
hoping mommy will relent
kicking
screaming
holding your breath
blue in the face
wearing red-face
pretending you’re the last feather
floating o’er the plains
you may have been told you are loved
and
you
may
in fact
be
but
if your peace is stolen by violence - as you would have others believe
you might look inward or
at your magic mirror to
find the culprit. tell
him whatever you want. tell
her what you will
they will, apparently, believe whatever
they’re told to believe. Whatever best fits
their narrative. It’s all fluid to
them. all relative to how
he feels, and how
she interprets and we know
we’re not allowed to
question the factuality of feelings
there are feelings and
yours appear infallible and
there are facts
they’re not foreign languages that need translating
they’re not your native language for
columbus to stumble upon
your calling is not to name things, nor to
cast light upon dark corners or
expose veins of decay
your province seems more colonial
thievery by anointed vocation
snatch and grab and declare
manifest destiny
slash and burn and
leave by the side of the road
flotsam from this wreckage will eventually
sink, or be washed away
tsunamis become waves become swells become ripples become still water
time’s reclamation effort
returning everything to nothing
fair exchange for our
transitory purchase of this mortal coil
