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Thirty billion light years from my finger tips the galaxies burn with white hot light —

I live in fire.

You fiery furnace — universal kiln,

I know your heat, warmth, singe, arc, burn.

I’ve seen your luminaries — glowing in my telescopes.

I know your lightening flashes on Jupiter.

Your volcanoes blowing up on IO.

And here too — your vibrating atoms, your everyday blue brightness and the noctiluca scintillans glowing in my own ocean.

But our fires — the ones we hunch down dark over, fumble, fidget, fume, kindle — they are differently dangerous.

We go home, click on our bulbs and run our thermostats to high.

We go out, shining small flashlights.

We devour the Lascaux.

We crave the light and spread low fire upon the earth.

We torch the Amazon.

We burn inside with a fierce, fickle, final anger,

We rain fire upon each other —

All our fires go out quickly.

And so it comes to this — you hold our hands after we have burned them,

Sooth and salve our blackened skin,

And hug us,

You sit beside us when we cry.

And with you near, we warm again from the inside out.

Together we flash, flame, flume, flare, scintillate, shimmer, sparkle and shine.

You will never go out.

Praise you.

Rules for girls?

Unstring the pearls!

Gender hierarchy?

It’s malarkey!

Some supposedly very good men I know, dressed in ties, some women in boots, chosen ones in suits — think men are better than women.

I don’t.

I don’t like the deep-down-damning drop of it.

I like it like I like the influenza!

He-ruling-she has forced the whole world down, within a smallish bucket, like the flu, put us to bed, under the covers, given us a hopeless, hellish, hacking cough that wracks and wastes our wanting world.

The really wise know that world health lies in the remedial awareness that there is really no one better or worse, that there is no one less, that in all if us exists both male and female, slave and free, Jew and Greek.

Inside us — there is human — and that is it.

And in one human loving another human the same, all doomed dominance is done.

I will say it: We are ready now for a healing between men and women. We are aching for cures, not more harm. The whole world is on tip toe ; we men are longing, even aching, for forgiveness, mercy and respect from our mothers, sisters, wives and daughters, and they ache for this from us too. We all, together, long for the kind of mutual honoring that bring us all better romances, friendships, marriages, families, businesses, churches and governments. 

Bring this, I say! Bring baskets overflowing with honoring.

Bring me my sisters, every femi who has been held back, every one imprisoned within the walls of a genderized poverty or stuffed into a gift-killing-Spirit-grieving-gendered grave. And bring me my brothers too, clothed in a new desire to share power.

We are all the called; now call us all out, and sitting down together at the table, let us drape all male and female weakness in power.

Let’s pick wild flowers in the dessert and offer each other bouquets of respect.

As if presenting dark chocolates, let’s hand each other the bitter-sweetness of foil-wrapped empowerments.

As if we had gone out and bought each other Van Gogh’s, or Frieda Kahlo’s, let’s lavishly gift each other with equality.