To Christien

Fri, 05/31/2013 - 02:41 -- irabohm


United States
33° 26' 58.3836" N, 112° 4' 44.1696" W

You fell through the sky
Hitting cement
To break into a new dimension
Where you can fly,
And now your body
And spirit exist
In different planes.
The chicken and the egg,
Now the shell has a different purpose.

It seems as though
Everyone is asking
Or even just wondering
Silently pondering
The incessant dubious question:
Sometimes it's a vowel
And sometimes closure.
You're not here to answer,
And really it's none of our business.

'Cause truth is,
if you were a ship
With no sailors,
We'd have enough sense
To understand why
You wouldn't set sail.

Truth is,
I'm human too,
Filled to the brim
With material for interrogation
Not for you,
For the ocean.

Why push ships?

I have no questions,
Because rest in questioning
Is not rest in peace.
We ask how a body jumps to its demise.
I'm asking, "Who pushed you?"
Not because these hands are tangible,
They have not
skin nor bones nor muscles.
They are ever shifting and changing upon recognition.
They have not fingerprints nor blood.
They came not from the womb
But the wind.

My dear friend,
You are merely
Another one of us
Lost at sea.
Lost to the waves,
And currents
Of a violent and anti-queer culture.

My question is not
Whether or not you
Called a hotline.
My question is
"How many hotlines does it take to
dismantle a system designed to create death?"

We cannot all be salmon.
We cannot shame those who are naturally
More vulnerable to the salted or fresh
Environments we are consumed by.

My questions are not for you,
My dear friend,
Because resting in questioning
Is not resting in peace.


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