Born into the stretchy meat of human skin
held up by millions of chambers
taking root inside lovely human bones
that crunch and creak and speak
with megaphones made from marrow
shouting and expecting single cells to unite
and breach diseased cavities of blame —
and if we’re not contagious we still might expect to heal
even while we sit on man-made thrones
constructed from streams of silver and specks of gold
and sometimes rickety rotten wood
and we expect it all to hold our weight
just like we expect our heart
to bear burdens
of the Earth’s bloodshed
that hemorrhages under the stars
beaming its glare in every piece of moonlight
ripping our lettered words
into shreds of symbols and despair
