my sitto is dead
so she cannot witness
this round of our people’s slaughter;
but some mornings feel like the nightmare’s
credits roll; a moment of musical end; at least
before the sun’s fire triggers
the image of conflagration; the image of scorched
sky; scorn incarnate; actions after which
there will be wake after wake and in the wake
more fire; not today; not yet; my grief: I do
know you are not far off; and with you,
rage; and raging: a bubble of boiled
love stuck in the throat; asphyxiating; in-
cubating another break; I broke the night’s
fast and made it into the shower; made it
into the day; did not dive; just dipped
my toes in but the water did warm
to bearable enough to bear; I stepped
into the day’s deluge not with weapon
but with a whisper that this one might
take; that no new war be waged
today; no onslaught or disembowelment;
I meant to be sad today; and grief: still
I have not forgotten you but just let me
push back the appointment a moment;
I’m almost never optimistic
but hope, hope I can do; on a good
day; enough of a good day at least
to feel gratitude; to feel possible; to find the pit
of hope buried under the permafrost
in my heart’s pit; and hang it
in a planter by the window and see it well
enough to grow a flower; to swell; to grow
teeth—and eat.