Two sit face in face. His face hears her pain. She hears her own pain. She's moving on.
They sat Separated by a master's going on a Ph.D., so respectable-the Teacher- not the taught. You are called by your first name. My first name is Doctor. I bet you wish you were my wife. Hear an apology? She's moving on.
Two others, we sit. Phone tag! You're it! Your voice spreads across my chest where ribs still hold prisoner a sunken dare or two. Truth Tellers and Spirit Dwellers, We are becoming, as we're moving on.
Two, three are many. We stand to speak our hearts. Do I lift my face to receive that dry kiss of fear? This kiss I wipe away to say these lives written here, underlined by days of hurting are by human right our own: OURS to interpret, to mourn, to be born, to celebrate. You heard me. Yes, our RIGHTS are as human as our WRONGS. You got it. We're moving on.
Web O' Poems