He makes eye contact.
Selling roses made of sweetgrass,
with that look—I’ve seen that look before,
a familiarity in his eyes,
as if I know him, though I’ve never seen him,
he is the divine in drag,
peddling roses to tourists, cigarette smoldering between fingers.
Desire flickers in his gaze,
but not for the task at hand;
his intentions, his expectations—they lie elsewhere,
far beyond the reach of this moment,
yet here he stands, a prisoner of the eternal now.
He doesn’t want to be here, but he is here,
locked into the here and now,
unable to be anywhere else,
his divinity concealed by the mundane,
a perfect disguise,
allowing the divine to walk unnoticed,
selling roses on the street corner,
smoking, sighing, eyes distant with longing,
as if somewhere deep inside,
he remembers what it is to be more.
And I see Fairness,
she’s just behind him, clear as day,
familiar to me as the breath in my lungs.
Fairness, one of the four cardinal ideas,
she gave birth to community,
and she is at war.
Fairness, ever just, ever equitable,
desiring only that each has their right, their place,
standing firm against the old order,
Hierarchy, ancient and entrenched,
where everything is rank and order,
where individuals are lost to roles and positions.
Hierarchy, who sees not the person but the rank,
existing in one place,
from which all orders flow down,
and Fairness, whispering, infiltrating every order,
telling each ear that they are more than this,
more than a rank, more than a role.
She whispers, “You are the divine,”
and in that whisper lies the power of rebellion,
the refusal to obey, the possibility of becoming,
anything you want.
He listens to her,
even as he knows his place,
a rose peddler on a busy street,
but in his eyes, the contention is clear,
the battle between knowing his rank and hearing her voice.
She will never let him forget,
that he can be anything,
for he is the divine in disguise,
and though he stands here, now,
his desires, his expectations, are elsewhere,
far beyond the reach of this moment,
in the infinite possibilities whispered by Fairness.
Yet, he is here, now,
selling roses to tourists,
cigarette between fingers,
a man in drag, a god in disguise,
bound to the present, yet infinite in potential,
his gaze locked in the eternal now,
even as Fairness whispers of what could be,
of what is his by right,
of the divine nature within,
that cannot be erased,
no matter how deep the disguise.