Let this sink in,

 

 

so far in
until you feel
that same somersault
feeling in our gut.
It may take awhile
or it may take a second
depending on the color
of your skin or how loud
your voice can say, “I too
have had enough!”
Maybe that feeling
may happen this afternoon,
maybe tomorrow,
while pouring milk
into your coffee cup.
See it’s that easy,
the pouring is where
it all happens:
in those few seconds
you might have a glimpse
of how big the eyes
of a calf can stretch in fear
knowing it will not taste
the earth from its mother.
How you might hear
the cries for all beloveds
in that short second.
Maybe it will happen
this evening, when you
hold a bar of soap
to your flesh and wash
the day away from Covid,
from smoke in the air,
from eyes that stare at you—
wondering if you too
would call out to your mother
if the knee was on your neck,
if the knee of a country
was on your spine waiting
to break you open
and not remember that you
were once a baby,
and how a nose touched
your nose too—
and it was nighttime
when your eyes opened
to the sky, that black blanket
stitched with diamonds.
Waiting for you to say,
“I’m here, I get it now.”

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