Not family history, not blood ties .

But a dye woven through us like a tapa mat.

You’re in the rhythm of life, people have said.

Or you listen, as a first gesture.

You bring a softer hand to the common table.

It may be true we're of a kind,

though it’s harder to say what binds us.

Gathering in public with my brothers and sisters,

our laughter has sometimes pulled like a tether.

Strangers step up

to ask if we’re a theater troupe

or a tipsy wedding party just let out church doors.

Cloaking what treasure we have

we've glanced at each other and lied.

“Friends," we say. "Just friends.”

When I think about it I'd say:

we’re struck deep by something.

If you look hard, you may see it.

What if the breath we share is not our own?

Or if our eyes can barely take in the trouble of this life?

We’ve loved and raged, been fractured and healed by one other.

And still we sit silent together.

Struck deep I think. By what?

Yes. By what.

A playful light rings the border.

Fires cascade within.