All Boundaries Are Conventions

An oldie but a goodie.

I wrote this in 2015 or 2016. I wrote it in the Hispanic House at the College of William & Mary, where I lived my senior year. I vaguely remember being at one of the desks in one of the Casa Hispana’s shared spaces in the evening, perhaps after an evening class, gym session, or club meeting, and certainly with other pending deadlines. It was dark outside and the lights turned a little low as we had codified for nights in mutual respect of each others’ bedtimes. Se me ocurrió escribir esto, what else can I say.

All boundaries are conventions.

All boundaries are conventions.
that’s what the rappers tell me.
As I stare into the green, bronze, pupil-less eyes of Themis,
she says that though she cannot move, she does not rest.
She’s wandered the world silently
for millennia,
like an Irish farewell song—
her subjects dance into the sky
like a leaf from a bonfire—
bidding goodnight,
so long,
alas, it was to none but me.
She flanks
a man on his knees
—but does not rub his back or coo in his ear—instead
she lifts him by his axillae, puts her palms on his cheeks, and stares,
nose-to-nose,
so that he sees her green bronze eyes.
Get up.