“Her height is not measured in inches.”

They tell me of a woman taller, I say:
β€œHer height is not measured in inches.”
They ask the human to abandon Earth
live elsewhere
call it home
They ask me to relate the only one
to whom?
Impossible.
She is not more beautiful –
as the Devil asking the right questions
and the Goddess singing the right sounds
are neither more nor less than human, but some
-thing
else
entirely.
She calls to me and clarifies without
a voice

Her words frolic in a playground
not in unison alone
The one here bullies that one there
two more struggle for a ball
These two kiss for the first time
holding hands and what else
is there?
This one weeps from boo-booed knee
And perhaps somewhere, to someone, even most,
the whole scene is a burden
shutting windows, passing nasty
glances – or, worse yet, scheming ones
planned abortions and abstentions
plotted thefts and violations
I conspire only life (alone)
to which nothing compares but its absence

My words are a chorus
they move this way, first, then that
Not always with construction
or collective spontaneity
but with conductor’s single-mindedness
that often is not fit
for poetry
Yet she says I am better than her!
When I already told you
of her height and human inches

I wish to make my words, at times, like hers
not a compliment, and not comparable
but with a richness of collected colours
Once I sat with her and painted
Her hand produces landscapes
mine a dark and sure-eyed
demon
black

Is there yet another lesson here
for her to teach me?
And when I ask the question,
will she answer?
Ever?

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