i don’t know,
but there just aren’t any words for this, are there?

days later
and i still scramble for the right things to say,
as if any poetry could make this easier, more okay.
(it doesn’t work. i give up soon enough.)
(there is no poetry for this.)

i want to let time take my hand,
wash away the horror of what america has done;
i let angry music blare loud in my ears before i realize—

no. this is not something i can drown out.
this was not anything time would heal.
this was never something we could have just ignored, see?

you cannot let a sickness grow
call it healing while it festers.
you cannot watch a burning building
and think the fire will put itself out.
you must not leave a infected wound out and open
and just wait for the blood to stop on its own.

(it’s already infected. it hurts enough already.)
(it will scar.)

no. you have to act. you have to say:
this is not normal.
we cannot live with smoke around us,
with open wounds—
we cannot live if we are dying.

you cannot succumb. you cannot think of dying yet.
you have to say: i am alive. i will not die.
not while i am needed,
not while i can help.

take a breath. let the image sink before you.
stare at it, this open wound;
but then you must fight the sickness.