poetry is one thing
but when you must twist your speech
to hide the moaning
or forget to draw the windows closed in mourning
well,
a sick god understands not the health of his patients
though usually without a wealth of patience,
he sits them down quietly now, and explains
this is what we do here, honey
just to be clear: killing has no conscience
fear is how we tremble
kin is an not even an extension
it is what we are
when we say ‘stop, you are hurting me’
we already know how to speak in the same speech
it is called sentience
when we say ‘child, i love you’
we nuzzle necks so softly
that the graze of our own cheeks
may well have a fluff or a fur
call it commandment
call it a secular awakening in a digital age
say we know what war is now
say we’ll do better next time, we promise
Iraq holds my family like a syllable my tongue can’t catch
my Nana talks about her lost home approximately twice a year
all she ever says is that it was lovely, and that her father would have loved me
she leaves out death, leaves out how her skin has always prickled with how to blend
humanity has too large a thesaurus for the word suffering
I think we all get it now, don’t we?
or was that maybe just as of last week that we —
apology trickles in after history’s hailstorms while excuse
holds a clean towel out underneath the whole way home
to sop, stop, and justify
I think we could use a few more words to say I’m sorry
just to be clear: animals feel pain
fear is how they tremble
blood is how they bleed
they nuzzle necks so softly
they say ‘child, i love you’
we can always look at an oppressor in two formats
the first in bold. the other italics.
we can always defiantly differentiate.
we can always choose a softer name for murder.