After the silence

There is a girl and a party and some strangers.
“I am,” she says, simply said.

Scratching temples and necks wrenching at novelty.
I am Joe, I am Bob Shirley Mason Hamid, Marjit.
I am a doctor, dentist, politician, maid.
I am a street person, chef, barista, I am a student.
I am a mill worker, a steel worker, a worker.

I am a mother, a sister. I am a triathlete, an armchair jockey
who revels in Superbowl Sundays, Major League Playoffs.
I am planning to work, exercise, eat better.

And you are?

There is a girl who nods her agreement, forget the emphasis
on the subject pronoun, move it instead to the verb.

And you are?
“I am,” she repeats because she refuses to be anything but being.

“You don’t make any sense.”

There is power to the simplicity, “I am.”
It loses power through additions, room add-ons, accessories.
“I do not need to be accessorized. I am.”

Simply said, I am.
Stop. Stop right there
and don’t add to “I am” something like
Pathetic, a tree drowning in smoke, something like
I am patient
I am right
creative, stuck, stagnated. I am a stranger, I am a rockstar.
I am kind, mean, basic. I am complicated.

The adjective dilutes, it is coffee with too much milk and sugar,
it is pigment with too much medium.

I am has power and is self contained.
I am is its own universe and the adding of things to it takes
that wide expanse and reduces it by galaxies at a time.

I am buddhist muslim or christian cuts off those other worlds,
it trims the flesh into bite-sized sound bytes.
It presses the body into jelly molds, it is the sharp edges of the cookie cutter
descending.
It is the flag embracing, the uniform informing.

Do not be reduced. Be.