Outside the Margins
We have set aside our primeval brethren.
They were the first children to utter the names of light and dark
And now they are discarded by the same tongues that named them.
Each one, as they slouch beyond the gates of oblivion turns to us
They ask what they have done to be forgotten
But we do not hear them.
They say their names and the echoes shake the girders of belief
And yet we do not hear them.
“I am the tongue of Eden,
I am Yggdrasil, the world tree,
I am Fuerza, who stood at your door on your naming day
I am pride’s light, I am Ra, who is always inside you
I am the Seven of Wands,
I am the living wound; I am the name of broken homes,
I am the repository of unrequited love,
I am quicksand and I am dignity,
I am the forced smile and I am the historical rape,
I am the fields of kindness, I am eager, and yet I am the ashes that mark the first birds,
I am desperation and I am consumed,
I am the barbed wire; I am Odin’s wheelchair,
I am the purchased, a hole in utopia’s gutter,
I am the electric ether, I am anonymity,
I am the stillborn, the unpretty color,
I am the yucca that baptized the oldest stones,
I am the first to sit on the throne of poverty,
I am the Guardian of Oppression.”
And despite the call of these ancient names
We do not hear them.
We betray them and send them one step beyond their own names.
One day in shame, we shall all discover that we are all there too.
We will one day learn that we are pilgrims of a common exile.