the brood

where do your hands stop?
where do your wings end?
where do your eyes close?
where does your heart leave
strings hanging free and loose?

stop choking me
in the name of love and tribe.

keep your hands to yourself,
until I ask for a hug, to be held;
keep your wings folded or open,
until I ask to be gathered in;
keep your eyes open or closed,
until I ask for you to see;
keep your heart throbbing,
until I ask for it to connect
with me;

I don't need mamas and papas,
grand aunts and uncles,
or grandparents,
to lead me through every ripple,

stop the brooding.
stop the baiting.
stop the herding.
there is no brood -
only you for you,
me for me,
and the essence
of the 'we',
exploding into these waters,
that take us somewhere
together,
over every ripple
encountered,
lived,
and crossed,
separately together.