The Ones That Walk Away
To Our Lost Children
Melissa mourns a daughter. Alexis, a dead son.
On the hills where kids lay buried, wildflowers
snipped then scattered, fade to brown. From
the ashes, a chorus of origami hearts unwrapping.
Grief is a house with little paper folds. I tear at
the walls with my fingertips, searching for seeds,
searching for a do over. Here in the grey, a marriage
hardening into ice & everyone not buried, walks
away. I love you; I say to my daughter. Her silence
swells then cracks. Our bodies a dream, stripped,
of hope. Child, tell me how to inhabit a shrinking
space? When there is nothing left, the future
exhales & dies in my arms.
I.II.MMXX Not Even The White House Knows The Body Count
Not even the White House knows the body count.
Out of the storm, dark aspirations grows. No longer
content with small snatches of light, a President
assassinates the New Year with a swoosh of giant
wings then is surprised when the world burns bright.
On the west lawn, without regret, mockingbirds clear
their throats, tweeting out lies. In their claws, a democracy
in shreds, ending any hope of lives rich in meaning. There
will be generations lost in this show of greed. As the
82nd airborne division, now in-flight heads to Middle East,
innocents gather, listening for the next pass. Is it too
late to retire from the contest? NY, LA, cities on alert.
In Miami, Trump stacks cards into a miniature skyscraper.
I’ve come to appreciate the brevity
of an evil heart.
