you drive—invincible inside your two tons of metal—down the
boulevard, you take two rights, then a left into a driveway.
a preacher-man reads to you from a thick book stories of angels
with flaming swords so you should learn someone’s idea of
right versus wrong.
you prepare for the protest march downtown, empty your
wallet of all but i.d., write your one phone number in
sharpie down the inside of your forearm, and memorize
your rights.
in a courthouse you stand in front of a judge dressed in black
wielding her gavel, in stylized battle with attorneys as your
proxy, to fight for your rights under the law, fight for the
cold hard cash of a settlement—sixty guilders for
Manhattan island entire, or fifteen thousand dollars for a
lifetime of earnings wiped out by the Exxon Valdez—these
settle accounts on the corporate balance sheets but will
never make you whole. no,
it’s more like wisps of chimney smoke drifting through woods
on a crisp spring morning, wisps you could never gather
completely, let alone assemble for a law book: you hold your
scrunch-faced newborn daughter in your arms, you cradle her
with love, tenderness, joy, protectiveness, responsibility. you
greet your best friend—perhaps with hugs and back-slaps,
perhaps with fist-bumps—you pledge loyalty, brotherhood, I-
got-your-back. your sister is unwell, you find out what she
needs, you bring groceries, flowers, do what you can to help
her heal. you stand on the edge of a cliff, blue sky and puffy
clouds overhead, trees of a forest unfolding before your feet,
with a deep breath you feel your connection to the hawk that
circles, the grasses on the cliff, you’re all crafted from the same
atoms recycled since the beginning of time. a crumpled snack-
bar wrapper flutters across your boot—doesn’t matter that it’s
not yours, you pick it up, stash it in your bag to pack it out.