don't you want
to be uplifted by song, by wine,
by love, by experience,
by hatred, by activism,
by layered bits of cotton and wool
painted in pretty colors?
They ask us this all the time.
and yet, we are made of
all the things that they try to invent:
a bloody heart that beats to a billion different rhythms,
a frame of bones that climbs mountains
or guides music
or opens windows to drink afternoon sunlight,
we are made of colors and shapes
we float in seas and we sing
and we taste
and we burn,
and maybe the sellers need to take their turn
and put down their wares
and let oceans drown
their hollow stares.