We are not so complicated,
Not fate thrashed, like the heroes
On Instagram or in Homer,
But born splitting into fractals.
I remember how clear
People were when I was a child:
Anna Green never,
Without being asked, took her
Hands out of her sleeves,
Marie Jones was kind
But graceless, so people would
Accidentally forget her on lists;
When I was eleven
There were girls whose wombs
I sensed because of their eyes;
And the dancers and musicians.
I see their pictures sometimes,
I wonder who they are now.
We were little formula of
Fear and selfishness and
Love and courage, and we
Are here now, twenty years on,
Spinning, seeping into shapes,
But perhaps it is simple,
Perhaps we are only that.
