on mornings more difficult than most
when mirrors are subjective
and voices seem to speak what you fear.
images too faultless stain your perspective, only
because they declare more loudly than
the hushed and humble wind,
which carries in her breezes secrets
unspoken. those that you are the first,
and last, of your kind. that your body is
a new creation, which precociously knows
of choreographed sequences arranged well
before the dynasties of the earth.
that your body is not a ‘thing’ to
be standardized, essentialized.
that it is no platform for public forum,
that it is not to be interpreted, but
deciphered, an ambition that will never
come to realization, for you and i are
but codes no one can crack
(because these glyphs are the key to what
we don’t know beyond, what we surely will never comprehend).
that we are matter’s particles and waves,
swelling and bursting along
with the tides.
we are the moon beckoning the sea in patterns
meaningful, beautiful, necessary.
we are proclamations, we are crusades
for any being who has ever felt less than
perfect. temples, sanctuaries, cathedrals!
basins to cradle the prayers, those
demanding revolution and those dared not
to be uttered aloud.
we will not be spurned.
for we were,
are,
and will be.
