There are but two souls that matter on twirling Earth
            and the heavens and in between and beyond,
Swirling together in a perfect emulsion,
            and electrifying sweet, sentimental tangency:
 
Your overflowing, ebullient, joyous essence
            and my fulfilled, arrhythmic soul in your presence,
Beating together, hearts in perfected cadence,
            and sharing a single spiritual DNA.

There are but two undiluted truths that matter
            and from which all knowledge and wisdom commence,
Asserting without high-browed equivocation
            and informing our village of two among some billions:

            and that you love me, unrestricted, in return,
Accepting my imperfections, flaws and failures
            and loving me–in pure perfection–despite them.

 Where?
There are but two places alone that will matter
            and around which all compasses calibrate,
Pointing into the vast, blue, and empty cosmos
            and settled with mitochondrial specificity:
 
The first place where, singularly, you are with me,
            and the second,  where I–desolate–am away,
The one where joy erupts from every molecule,
            and one where I must long for proximity.

 When?
There are but two moments in time-space that matter,
            and from which all moments from moments expand
Forward into the endlessly eternal past
            and back to the origins of unwrinkled time undone:
 
The endless, calm moment before your shy “hello,”
            and the moment after when I consumed your breath:
The first black moment when I merely existed
            and the white-hot moment of newly quickened me.
 

 Why?
There are but two reasons for breathing and hoping,
            and enduring tedium from beyond us,
Showered upon by blunt Persiod reminders
            and rejoinders against our mythical closed-loopedness:
 
That there are radiant moments we pass together
            and places where our souls and truths are commingled:
Wishes realized amid heaven-strewn meteors.
 
            And then those agonizing moments apart,
            left longing for togetherness,
                        for the other:
                                    for the why.

Reintroduction:  Three and a Half Years Hence

What if, we wonder, the word were never infused
            With its meaning?
What if, we wonder, the word were never used
            As a weapon or defense
            Of war: for hatred?
What if, we wonder, the word were never whispered
            In classrooms or plantations or factories
            Or offices or streets or around tall oaks
            Or around burning crosses or churches?
What if, we wonder, the word were never thought
            In anger or spite,
            In North and South and West
            Toward strangers whose actions belie it–
            Or even reify it–from afar or near?
What if, we wonder, the word were never bestowed
            Upon a people, pure and whole,
            Stolen from their home
            And cursed for their freedom
            In their new land–new home–
            By blind hypocrites?
 

            As stones and spears:
Because words carry meaning
            Like a burning cauldron:
Because words are imperfect
            And insidious
                        In their imperfections
            But far worse
                        In their calculations.
 
Because, even for those who wish
            It didn’t exist–
                        Disingenuously
            Denying its use–
                        It always lingers.
 
What if, we wonder, the word were never taken
            Seriously or internalized,
            Appropriated and claimed
            And shouted back with
            Disdain, shackle-freed, toward its
            Original owners?
What if, we wonder, the word were never remembered
            Or its injustice in Jim Crow
            Or Separate but Equal
            Or Three-fifthsism
            Or Slavery itself?
What if, we wonder, the word were never coded,
            In arguments for tradition,
            For the false ablutions:  fissures
            In our tender fabric?
What if, we wonder, the word were never shielded
            From the hard-panged realities
            Of systemic inequality?
What if, we wonder, the word were never bestowed
            A place in our lexicon?
What if, we wonder, the word were never uttered?
 
What if:
            Never.