Bells do not ring
when our names are called,

we are the no people
who were once the yes people,
we are China in the back closet,
wash left in the rain
with the wind moving our sex.

Our words are awkward
between forks and knives,
between shadows
on the dinner plates,
we're stones fluttering
in your intimate eyes.

Yet you've given us
a place at your table,
it's a tight place
between crowded chairs,
naked we do not know
if you have us here
to keep yourselves separate.