something_s we make
There’re more answers I don’t have
than answers I do, in fact, have.
I don’t actually know
who man is
what his purpose his
and why life ends the way it does
only that it does
Once thing, however, I know, with considerable amounts of personal certainty:
I’ve always loved the word ‘coccinelle’.
It’s French and means ladybug. I love it.
And I presume
its dots came from a little shower of ink
when the little coccinelle walked by the old man one day.
He was, as usual, writing,
forming, as usual, new worlds of words.
The old man was probably surprised
to see that little red dot on the white between the black
and splattered ink all over the page,
where my little coccinelle was going for an evening stroll.
You see, friend,
I don’t actually need to know
whether its dots came from the ink of the pen of the old man at the desk
or from the horse in the meadows that shat on it
I may not need to know who man is
just that I’m woman (by the world’s binary standards anyway)
and what man’s purpose is
just that I get to create bits and pieces of my own (sometimes)
and that it ends the way it does when it does
– a long way down the road if I’m lucky.
And because I don’t know either
whose side luck’s on, I shall adhere to what I know with considerable amounts of personal certainty:
little coccinelles give me wonder and awe,
and make me breathe in just deeply enough to be inspired to write.
And maybe the stories I have to offer
might just be enough