You have only one word for love.

I walk as a man.
I walk as a woman.

Your words are a too tight shoe.

My name is not written in your myth.
My portrait is not painted.

I do not appear in your mirror.

I see you.
You are blind.

You have no words with which to see.

I walk among you.
My hips sway.
My boots stomp.
My heart beats out loud.

I am the living thing
Your dead language can’t describe

With its lonely word for love.
 
 
   
 

© artis wilder
January 30, 1999