A poem

Somehow, my words don’t feel adequate, but this is what I seem to have right now. This should not be a normalcy. A human, a person, a cousin, a loved one… I wanted to type, “How is this possible?”, but I know better. The sickness of power struggle and societal tug-of-wars and racism. Thoughts and prayers are not an answer. Poetry is not an answer. But perhaps it can be part of the telling, the sharing, the discussion, the movement. Like you, I am heavy, sad, and angry. And this is what I have to give in this moment. Be well. Share love. Check your judgements.

A poem

It’s been years

but now:

do I pray?

If I do

then to whom?

Do I pray

to the Earth,

shed tears

on her brown skin

that we covered

in white lines

on paved lies

precincts built

to the skies,

in the hopes

that she

will be moved

too?

Who.

Who do

We

pray to?

Grasp the grass

in our hands

the only blades

that should

press against necks,

cool to the touch

breathing

with Earth.

So tell me

who, now?

Who

the fuck

do we

pray to

now?

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