Some things never change, they say,
but some do.
Yesterday I was not
here yet today I am.
I have chopped my legs off, replaced them with iron cramps, clipped,
clipped, and clipped my nails, so that they would grow stronger. I have
carved rows out of my arms and hands, now
I am puffing steamclouds through eyes I do not need anymore,
I gouged them out, you can call me a monster,
recoil from me, uselessly, too late,
or you can come along, leave your own behind to eat the dust that
we will have shaken off our feet, trust me, only I will
be able to tell you why Governors Island
drifted into the open sea, everyone else will have
watched without seeing that I was born, while I, yes, I
hatched out of the Statue of Liberty, wiped
the island free from useless inhabitants, then
boarded it, let my hands
hit the waves and electrielectrieclectricity
stream from the wheels between my lids. Listen. Tomorrow all those
you think you belong to
will
not
have
been able to see
how we cross the ocean,
index on the map, eyes glued
to the compass
thinking only of home, calling
now is the time to discover continents and draw the charts, no,
they will not, but you, if you
come along, shall sail
by my side, looking out
to the promised land
while the mother of exiles lays aside her torch to
descend from her pedestal, pull a scale out of the deep, blue sea, and
start to weigh destinies, not ours.