Who gave us permission
To exist with such hope, such fragile optimism
When we all know the folly of daring to dream beyond —
A room of one’s own, a companion perhaps,
And if blessed beyond our thoughts,
And yet we dare to ask
For justice; safety for the oppressed
We dare to point out that it is you,
the ones who call us apathetic
That gave us nothing for which to hope
And yet we grow
In spite, not because, of your nagging
And we befriend and are befriended
In the strange space between suburbia and the alleyway.
Home is someplace where you don’t have to be ashamed
Of the color or shape or status
That doesn't match.
As though the breath that leaves my lungs
Escapes only to enter yours;
And oh, I hope it does.
And perhaps the distance
Between heart and heart, mind and mind,
The vacuum in which we, atom-like, reside
Is not so large that we cannot cross
In the fragile interweb of words:
I spoke this morning
Crost three thousand miles
To a heart that beats alongside mine, in my chest
and looked out the window to someone alien:
Do they exist? Are they real?
If truth can only be kept long-distance, I will take it,
But oh, the days that distance closes.
Who mock us,
Who scorn us,
Who speak not our language
But call us barbarians
(or youtubers, bloggers, young people)
Is it any wonder we look not to you,
But to others