Next to me was this one
and her feet were never still
she twirled and span through contretemps
and likely always will
That one had intensity
but never said a word
from blackened fingered canvases
his voice could still be heard
These two stood in spotlights
and held everyone in thrall
performing other’s stories,
their own a quieted call
And the group raised up their voices
which entwined and fit so well
and the chorus spoke of everything
they’d never usually tell
These memories, these children,
who moved, who drew, who showed,
who sang unguarded clarity
while the emptiness bellowed
Used to have us allies
used to have us care,
now, become statistics
now, are never there
