The Ones

We sit staring at our hands,
fear-driven.
Black with newsprint, we're up to our eyebrows
in the refrain (our only solace): they're not
like we are. The ones who put match to paper
or wear bones through their lips, the ones who fall

from greatness into the net
of celebrity lawyers.
The ones who listen to brass. The ones sleeping
in messy pieces under headstones, the ones who can
yodel. People with no asphalt leading to their doors,
whose feet take them where they need to go, or

people with trust funds or
bagpipes or exit wounds.
We could keep this up, but our we is shrinking.
Lift up a stone, find a work ethic to rival ours.
Think of all the fat men in sunglasses who have
buttons to push. What about the guys with full body

tattoos or dusty brown uniforms?
Or the little people
who stay up all night rearranging the borders?
I agree, I don't like the way they flatten their a's,
the unbreathable fabric they wear, but you
don't know the first thing about syllables.

Relations in high places? Any
twin can become an exile,
just bring money into the mix. You know what they say:
intermarriage brings on a case of sore buns
from fence-sitting. Some clubs you choose, some
there's no way to lose. So how do we shape a we

from frayed nerves and incompatible
diets? How
to avoid committing genocide when we feel so short?
Too little rain to remain an island, so always keep
one hand free. Be intimate with strangers. Your life
is in all of our hands. When sameness begins closing in,

get out the spyglass, bring
on the pogo sticks.
Wear welcome mats for clothes. We're becalmed,
dust bunnies! We're in a tippy boat and muck's the rule.
Take off your shoes and eat some greens.
It's a big we.


From WE LIVE IN BODIES (Alice James Books, 1997)