We had been taught to sit still when askedfor the salt, the pepper, the brandy, the knife.To cut small, and eat smaller. To be as suchthat eyes follow in the street, and heads rollfor uglier crimes. To speak softly, and committrespasses of faintness. To be nothingbut a thumbprint on a page of words, writtenby giants. There are none of us here. We've died.And when we haven’t, we've sufferedworse: a small blip on memory’s seismograph,an unfathomable, frantic set of lines, gone red red red.