Every year the same poem, the same
lament, the same sickness. What if
things don’t get better, merely more
tolerable? What if we lay down our
lives and nothing grows over us—
Some talk during movies.
Others crack their knuckles,
drink to excess, buy things
they don’t need, make
mountains out of molehills.
These are the moments, between work
and sleep, running from one task to
the next, I catch my breath, relax.
Born with a Stradivarius in hand,
Andy struggled to prove worthy of its wood
His head was often cocked to the side,
like a dog begging the Big Dipper for a treat
Who then would touch their torch to the sky,
bring down a raw, pure flame—
make light of so much devastation?
It’s all too much, the floor strewn with gifts
we couldn’t possibly deserve. But our son
is happy, going from toy to toy, and so
are we, smiling along with him as he plays
with the train, the trucks, the scooter.
You should know I find it easier
to write of climate change than love,
that time’s passage hurts in ways
drought cannot.
You are neither brave nor fit.
You abhor the deep-blue sea.
Innocent, who will acquit
those who look like me?
Liars all, you pay off the sharks
that murder us with glee.
So much death and pain today: slaughtered fowls,
reminders of genocide and oppression, celebration
of abundance denied to billions. Cousin, did you know
400,000 Ethiopians are suffering famine?
At what time the fog took over, I do not know:
I was, if not sleeping, attempting to, tossing
and turning like a Heron’s wing, lost in fog.