We made it up
Out of two pronouns:
“I” and “you.”
We called it
The country of Us.
*
That first, exploratory meeting
Full of mutual suspicions—
How could they be
Overcome?
In the beginning
It wasn’t even certain
We spoke the same tongue.
At best, they were wildly
Divergent dialects.
A dictionary?
Years
In the making.
Key terms—
Still in dispute to this day.
*
From the outset,
It was hard for
Us
To see eye to eye.
For my part, I was
Distracted
By the rest of you.
*
If we were two ships
We could have passed
In the ocean and not
Known.
If we were
Two birds we might
Have been flying
To opposite sides
Of the sky.
But
We were two bodies
Who bumped
Into each other
And clung.
Two
Bodies that collided,
Then steadied each other,
Then stayed.
*
Shortly after we met,
We held a contest
To design a flag.
I wanted a small
Yin-yang
Superimposed
On a labyrinth.
You favored a single
Rose,
Rising from a single vase.
We settled on something
Totally white—
It had nothing
To do with purity,
Nor with surrender.
Think of a blank page
On which experience
Will write lines
Indelible as those
That mark a face.
Think of a bed
With covers thrown back,
And the sheet beneath
Ready for the wars of love.
*
Our currency
Is touch.
A Kiss the single
Largest
Denomination.
Followed by
A Caress:
An open hand
Sliding down
An arm or
Squeezing a thigh.
Small change
The fingertips give.
*
No wonder it’s unstable:
The national anthem
Never the same
For two consecutive days:
Whatever love song
The jukebox plays.
*
The stamps are also
Ridiculous.
Only two kinds:
If you’re feeling
Friendly
You lather
Your lips thickly
With something
Red and smooch
The right-hand
Corner
Of the envelope.
If you’re pissed
At the intended
Recipient,
You ink your thumb
And push down
Hard,
As if crushing an insect.
*
Who could possibly predict
The future of a country
As small as
Us?
What are
Its prospects?
No army to speak of.
Some think
Its natural resources
All but exhausted.
Optimists insist
It will last our lifetime.
We can only hope.
*
Seeking the most
Accurate account?
You won’t find it
In history books—
They get the facts,
But they don’t
Get the mystery.
Poems and songs?
Saturated with lies;
Closest
You’ll come to the truth.
*
Nostalgia: a national
Pastime—
Whole days spent
Conjuring up
A lost
Golden moment,
Or lavishing
A nacreous beauty
Around a grit of fact.
*
Thrive though it might, its days
Are necessarily numbered.
You don’t need to see
A crack in the wall,
To know mortality calls.
Who’ll be the one to leave?
Who, the one to grieve?
*
Briefest of nations—
Blip
On history’s screen.
Leaving not even
A trace
Of its existence.
To the world
It was
Less than nothing.
To us: it was all.