Sometimes I have to be any card in the deck. I don’t think it’s denying my authentic identity. After all, the joker remains the joker. The trickster. The coyote. They are mostly boys, and a little devious, sometimes mean, but usually trying to upend perception with an outcome that somehow becomes beneficial. Maybe a female trickster can start out kind. Who would suspect?
52 cards. A hierarchical configuration, numerically and socially. Where does the joker fit it? Less powerful than the king, yet the joker can be a wild king, and ridicule the king with impunity. Is a joker zero? The sum of all card? Or uncountable, permutating on the breeze. Ruffling feather, caressing a silky cheek, tossing an ill-fitting hat straight onto the ground.
I can fit with you. I am liquid, I am accommodating. Is it hard to see what you cannot feel? I speak up, assert myself in ripples and silence. Are you listening?
Ensconced in my warmth, unaware that I surround you, love you, protect you, nourish you, you. Sometimes I think you forget I am with you. Is it my fault you forget the air that you breath sustains your life? Can I become more than air? Solid and immobile hurts.
I do not seek to evade, but I do not seek to impose, either. Sharp sticks with flags of dominion fluttering above pierce the skin of my mother and pain me. You don’t see this. Can I fault you? The words attach themselves to the passing breeze, they float right past you, around you, through your hair…yet your imposition outweighs this lightness.
Yes, I am there, too. I can be heavy. I prefer quicksilver.