no songs to bring forth spinal chills or tears,
and no pontificating prose affixed to
pretty cardboard monuments
to this or that emotion.
And at such times, the feelings
fight, give way to facts,
hard truths that are self-evident
but which we're prone to cover up
with syrup, sex, or sentiment
which have their places, have their
name cards at the table nicely lettered
in calligraphy. We honor them.
But even then, there is a recognition
of the knowledge underneath it all,
fierce this-is-it that cannot be
removed or altered or embarrassed
by the faint and vain attempts
to make apologies, to blush,
to lie, to cover up, to dress it up in
clothes that don't embarrass, call
attention to the bumps and lumps of
our existence.
That is where I want to meet you,
in the honest glare of stark awareness
that there is an Us.
That there has always been,
and always will be, Us.
Whatever argument
you may present,
whatever pacifying poultice
you apply to wounds that only you
can feel, I reel, I swoon, I agonize,
I glory in the Us and nothing more.
(c) Ellen Gillette
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