Stitches

I’m here.
At least
I think I am.
But where is here?
And who am I?
And what is the place that is not here?
And where is every other me?

You think you know me.
You think you see who I am.
You think the color of my skin
and my male-ness
and the length of my hair
and my beard and my belly
and my long black coat
and my cowboy hat
Tell you all you need to know about me.

But they don’t.
Because they cannot speak.
They can tell you nothing.
I tell you where I’m from.
The short version.
What does that tell you about me?
Now you have one side of the story.
Good for you!
So you draw your conclusions.
You draw your lines in the sand,
all around me.
Now you’ve made a nice little box for me.
But I am a descendant of Pandora
and I don’t like boxen.

So I tell you where I’m really from.
The long version.
And I hatch.
Now you’ve got a newborn on your hands.
A baby dinosaur.
A velociraptor.
And not the cute kind.
You weren’t expecting that.
Things aren’t looking so good for you now.

But maybe I’ve misjudged you.
I do that sometimes.
No matter where I might be from,
I am only human.
I am not a velociraptor.
I can make mistakes.

Who are you?
Where are you
from?
Are you from here?
Or are you from the other place?
Or are we in the other place?
And are you from here?
So where am I
from
to you?

Are you from somewhere
else?
Maybe this place and the other
don’t seem so different to you
as either place to where you’re from;
The whole dichotomy is false.
I’ve been trounced–you’re an even bigger stitch
across an even bigger schism.
My apologies.
My respect.
My
condolences.

What do I know about you?
Why is it important that I know you?
Why is it important that you know me?
Are you one of us?
Are you one with me?
And why would that be important?

It is important to me.
I mind the gap.
I bridge the schism
and most people don’t even seem to care
that the schism exists
and don’t know
why it needs a bridge.

But the differences between here
and that other place
To us are like an open wound
that needs Stitches.