A Song of We
We are the ones with gas-station air
In our tires vended with bottom-
We are the ones wrapped in raw
Hide with will-pumped marrow,
Of crossed fingers and amulets.
We belong to each other
As ribbons to gifts, gifts to ribbons—
The garnish and the entrée.
Who are the gun-strapped ones, the venom-
Spat ones? The ones who lop
Heads with scythes and stake them high?
Not I. Not you. We are the baked ones,
Kiln-brazened and true, bug-eyed
And wary—wearied and worn.
Can you see the wilderness?
The river and the cypress?
We can meet between the canyon walls.
We can speak, rehearse, map escapes
With chew-chiseled pencils on stolen,
Who will stop us? The sworded, the bayoneted?
The long-bearded wise ones—cavernously
Wrinkled and waiting on death?
Not us. Not yet. We are dastards.
Yes, and villains; yes, and acrobats;
Yes, and stalwarts. Yes. We are.