debate team

we meet in the middle of the night
to try to argue with a new planet 
who just arrived. he is loud as a smacked drum.
won't stop calling everyone he sees,
"a flute master." we don't know
what that means but we assume
it's derogatory. when i am feeling really hopeless
& all my arguments lead back to a hole
in the dirt. i start tearing words apart like fruit leather.
i am too used to arguing about 
my body & my teeth & my blood. 
in this country we are all a christ figure
at some point whether we like it or not.
i would prefer to be a flock of geese bound
for a different place. the planet doesn't budge.
crouches down & pees in the dead leaves.
when i need to rest my dread i get all dreamy
& think about the other life forms
in other galaxies who will never know 
we existed. it is nice to get to feel
some relief from the pressure to find
the right words to prove you are,
just like all other cells, just trying to breathe.
the planet scrambles on & we are left with
a stinky yard & arguments made of glass.
from them, we construct mirrors.
i admit to a room full of strangers that
i am happier the less i look at myself.
this is what i have. a little ghost on a leash.
i tug the leash. tell him to heel. we finish
the dark by losing each other. shadows thick
as lentil soup. the smell of cumin. 
a cookie-cutter hole in the sky where
they have been saying the new planet will
get to live as a king. i do not sleep for weeks.