In conspiracies of men I find the wordless
Certitude of beasts bedded in their packs,
A comfort of animal barks I can translate
Into my own unique tongue of grunts and whistles
Searching for the feel of familiar clothes.
Our friends are faces in anxious crowds
That we hail from the roofs of lofty towers
Constructed from our accumulated pasts,
Traumas printed on our countenances
Like emblems of battle wounds we share.
In platitudes we test our safety on the ground,
Guarding tenderness with shields up,
Hands on hilts in readiness for fight
Or fright before we shuffle forward
To a shake, then hug, but not too close.
We want, O god how we desperately
Want to escape our lonesome child,
To find from others’ touch that we belong,
To shed tight exoskeletons that bind and be
For all to see and love, who we really are.
Maurice Gibbons
