I am all out of
lucky charms, talismanic objects that might otherwise betray
my secret orientalisms,
the fears beneath my illusions;
and yet, I am also, mysteriously,
out of harm's way.
I am also, unexpectedly,
walking along the tides that meet dawning day,
and little Toussaint.
Out of harm's rays
of pseudo-sunshine. Out in the braver fields, where dawns turn
to dusty moonlight
and I sit quietly.
I meet Chadwick,
and we talk of our families.
I listen, not look, for the fireflies,
and the sounds of lions and tigers,
dreamfighters and panthers.
The places where my heroes hide:
I know that scent. The way I stand
is reflected in these tides;
the way I honour the cradle, the grave, the roads in between
that all are still, after 77,033 years,
my divine right.
I may have left my flowers and wristbands in another place.
I may have finally eluded ISD's terrible, unstoppable gaze.
No matter can matter, though,
if what remains in sight
is still always that beautiful brown creole charisma,
still flourishing, still invisible, still numinously bright.
I'm not at all an ENFJ, my liege,
but I thank you for the compliment:
some stars will never go out,
even in darkest, drowsiest night.
And it seems you are terrified of the new Kristang planet names:
little did you know
that all that actually mattered of such matters
was Horus's brave, bold, unbeatable Eye.
Still blinking.
Still beating.
Still bursting forth, suddenly, radiantly
from every one of us.
You, and you,
and I.
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