quiet at the margins
my life has come to this
the rush of days the voices of otherings the lessons prescribed to be taught
none of these and all of these filtered through the scrim of years
now piled full of nourishment said to sustain healing
I want it all and none of it too tired to even eat what is good for me
has never been at the table of others
even she and he and I did not know better
something deeper was always at stake
I must face the hunger for it in myself
or nothing at all
the hunger for it in my children
those to whom I have cast the same stone and must carry
the burden of having chosen this long road
who are we really wanderers
desert dwellers
world creators
we who believe as easily as we despair
maybe kings
maybe queens
maybe mere mortals
this is all we ask
to be able to see a glimpse behind the screen of sky told to hold more
truths our eyes can not face full on
but our souls
we must believe in something if not this then