Mules in Our Backbone

slither slide and misdirect sit in silence here and there
intersperse with scurries dances tail etches sand
dust devil steals our melody and spins it to white noise
our spine is sixteen tons of What Do I Get?
our face might be analogous to what they called a "faggot"
but we're made of blood and meat and bone
—and our words could disillusion a maggot—

From genocides and rubicons, the ghosts of whom this ghost is from
our spine is 16 miles long, a mule on every knob and prong
bare possible, this critter here, a modern miniscule miracle 
unnoticed in our angst we sank but then we found a think to think
a Reason, at it were, a Bee come over here to land on we
her waterfall of cedar curls, her voice like oceans full of pearls
she makes us write like little girls, and also yeah, our toes do curl
fin.