if limbo exists,
you’ll be required to register
as biracial before entry.
everyone will be indistinct,
and camps outside the borders
will crowd the fences, coaxing you
to choose one or the other, threatening you
if you dare to seem unsure of your label,
refusing to accept your protestations
that you’re neither, that you’re both,
that you’re something else entirely.
but under a cool tree in the dead center of limbo
a sage sits singing of the genius of fresh invention.
he rises cross legged
still seated
into the air and says
there’s no reason to choose a road.
this is a destination of its own.
the ones outside the fence try to drown him out.
you have to crowd close to hear him.
when you look at the ground,
you’re astonished to see six inches
between your soles and the earth.
why, then,
are you so careful when you step?
Dark Matter 