I’m dumber than a Phillips head screwdriver
or on-ramp or speculum or rain and every diacritical
you can think of, critically or not, can do something
I can’t, I believe in the wisdom of matter,
that every form it takes is a species of intelligence
I’m fragile now, my heart can’t bear the weight of brokenness, those pains from fractured bones
check for the side with ruffled whiskers
and wrinkles, elephants tend to tilt
their trunks to scoop fruit so one half’s
always a bit shabbier than the other.
Why would you build a house with no nails?
Why plant, till, harvest a crop
in whose taste you find no savor?
The bees of the field scan the dances of their sisters
before penning a path to the lavender patch—
There is a gapping
in the chest when the water
outside pours indoors.
A continental
shift shuts down the panic that
will only drown me.
I was born during the Cold War. I remember talking about nuclear war with my mom when I was a tiny child. I lived through Desert Storm, Bosnia, Somalia, Afghanistan, and Iraq. Endless unrest in the Middle East. Escalation with China. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. I’m tired of it. What reasonable, normal person wants war? It’s the worst thing we humans do. Now, we have this latest, indelible image of my governor signing munitions—killing machines to keep the war raging. Will we ever have peace?