With breath inside my breath,
I nod to all the teachers
who live inside me;
their flexible minds, lithe bodies and ambrosia hearts
move me in ways I cannot move
but do,
even if the mirror can’t capture my tiny shifts.
They love me,
even the ones I’ve never met,
and I cherish their sweet and sour nourishment.
And because I am wiping the sleep from my eyes,
their voices are mine,
and not,
and their sufferings mark my story,
and mine are known to them.
The words have been found before
and tossed around
and discarded for the sake of other kinds of honour.
The flash of kinship beneath them,
the dendrite of recognition,
lives on.