I can listen to your stories,
hear you speak of the myriad
events that formed you—
interactions that accreted
like plasma and particles
circling a black hole,
like paragraphs of history,
like sun-illumined dust motes
atop an ebony table;
I can hold your fears—
born from the caustic
vibrations of past generations, from
their fears,
their crushed hopes,
their expectations cast
like a blanket to protect you,
their precious children;
I can hear your reasons
for sharp boundaries,
for narrow definitions,
for needing barriers
with an inside
and an outside.
If you
can do the same;
perhaps,
there is hope.
by Gale Naylor
Poetry by Gale 