washers on the wall

if you threatened to build a wall,
bring communication between us to a dying crawl;
were you to close this embassy of compassion and
empathy,

purge your language of
sanguine pronouns,
and pronounce us
an enemy,

of course you
wouldn’t see origami in
crumpled paper balls,
hear conversations beyond
trading blows,
or relate to our
uncanny twin
drawls.

You’d see only gall,
hear audacity in the rise
and fall
of dialect,
assume treason where we dare
to leave our
story.

if you threaten what unites us all,
albeit with poorly
fashioned weapons,
when one pause before
rogue prognosis

(that we are closest
forced apart)

could have changed the fog of war.

we could have stopped keeping score,
claimed the board and been the
game masters
of ever afters,
with never
a word of
foreign intervention.

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