I suppose if we all flaunted true colors
the world would reel.
We might find
we are all fibers in the same piece of cloth.
Any pulled thread would cause an appalling rent,
the unravelling of the whole garment.
Likely, we are so closely knit
That you can't hurt without my shrinking and pulling.
I spend my time on my little inch of the globe
squinting against glints of individual threads.
Actually are you so different from me
that it's like binding mohair and burlap?
Rabbit fur with rayon?
Do you love you children?
Hope better things for them?
Are your prejudices nonsensical?
Must your increase mean my decrease?
And if so, why does the thought of never seeing
your true composition
cause an ache, a feeling of potent loss?