friends that love you.
And your body is of
billions upon billions of cells
whose existence has been gifted
by your ancestors.
They, too, love you,
as each day they pulse
and go to work.
Don’t ever believe such foolishness
that you are alone.
From all edges:
the cliff, the bridge, the blade, the pill, the exhaust,
I say this. . .
Nothing could be further
from the truth.
Those that are the dead go on
living inside you.
their life, in you.
their stories, now,
their dreams, now, in you
You are the next step of a delicate foot,
walking since the beginning.
it is your step.
Place it like a dream.
They are all counting on you
But let it fail, if need be. Give it permission to fail.
Every success was born of failure.
Strange, isn’t it?
Failures move forward.
Only answers remain static in time.
And now, you are here.
The whole of their every failed and realized dream,
whole, like the moon, in its darkness and light.
The shade, the mystery.
The light, the known.
Between the two, is the only conversation on earth.
And you alone, in this singular contemporary body-organism,
thrilling with a multiplicity of cells un-named, should know:
you are a country of people already.
They are all singing.
And to find them. . .
You need only listen.