We had been taught to sit still when asked
for the salt, the pepper, the brandy, the knife.
To cut small, and eat smaller. To be as such
that eyes follow in the street, and heads roll
for uglier crimes. To speak softly, and commit
trespasses of faintness. To be nothing
but a thumbprint on a page of words, written
by giants. There are none of us here. We've died.
And when we haven’t, we've suffered
worse: a small blip on memory’s seismograph,
an unfathomable, frantic set of lines, gone red red red.