There’s a moment when a child
becomes old enough to stop looking
like part of your tribe; when the bit
flips from friend to foe; it’s been
studied and documented, analyzed
and quantified so we shouldn’t be
surprised
When we look at each other and 
pick up stones to crack bones
Blood running hot, don’t stop
until the frantic resistance quiets
and our scapegoats lie vanquished,
lifeless under our feet.
But aren’t we more than chimpanzees
killing each other for land
or sex or water, brutal and brutish
fueled by instinct, brother?
Give me your hand
and kill me if you must.
But I will not fight you
Because our enemies don’t have
skeletons and tendons, lungs and 
arteries and hair;
We enter together, sister
or wait for the dust to rise up 
and swallow our memory.