If you could be quiet
hang your beliefs by the door
sit down beside this poem
that leans in
to whisper:
“right now at this very moment
even before I finish this sentence
someone is dying unjustly,
or hungry, or is not you—
privy to these squiggles
I form with my mouth,
because reading is as alien to them
as poverty is to you,
there is something terribly wrong
and absurd about this life.”
If you think about this too hard,
like I do…sometimes,
breathing becomes awkward.