We are not the topic of your debate,
not an owl that thinks it might be a rabbit.
We are not a platform to lift you into office,
not a knife to thrust at Republicans.
And we are not a club to swing at your mother who believes
we are not women or men, because someone says
that someone said that someone said
that six thousand years ago god snapped
his finger and the earth appeared and also the heavens
and the air and birds and toads and maybe dinosaurs we aren’t sure about that
and one “man” and one “woman,” but I forget where I was,
what I was doing. Something
about what we are not.
We are not
fodder for reality show politics,
not the stumping pundit, not the lizards
taking pictures in the bathrooms, not peepers
or prowlers or raving I’ll-fuck-whatever-I-want
we are not
we are nothing
you think we are
and you are not, you are nothing we think you are.
Except the same collection of bones and tendon,
blood and lung and stomach as we are.
Nothing except the same feet and knees and hands
and face with its forty-three muscles
that tense and release and reveal
all of our joys and terrors and loves
sorrows, furies, pains and fears that make us
that make all of us
not a rock, and not a puddle of piss.