We say we like to be pretty. We like to wrap ourselves up nice. We say we want joy.
At Christmas we sit around a big dead bird and we talk about ourselves.
What are you doing, Uncle Jack. How’s it feel to be sick, Cousin Sam.
We walk, like to the grocery store before making a meal, like to work
and we talk and smile and nod, like we are.
A pleasant assumption but that’s it, that’s how it feels. We are.
We let others climb on top of us, push themselves back and forth into us, and then we clean up and work,
that good hard work.
We smile some days and say Fuck Off You Work in Public Service other, more mild days.
We groan.
We like things, even big exhausting things, to feel like someone else’s things. We like it to be quiet.
Nice bird, Uncle Jack, we yell.
We like noise in our kids’ ears, carrying them like truth through snow. We like the start of our
favourite song
bringing us home.
We hold hands more often at night. Like there is more magic somehow
at night.
We bring others we hate to their knees.
We fucking dance.
And like Ancient Gods we
wade into tall dark water and swim.