what can I do
now that the grief has grown and shrunk a million times
(from massive to miniscule and back again)
now that hundreds of thousands of people no longer breathe
(and hundreds of thousands more find it nearly impossible)
now that my body aches every minute of every day
(some more than others, but never not at all)
now that Black boys are being killed by public servants
(and doctors won't listen to their weeping mamas)
now that I wouldn't recognize the kids at my school without masks
(though I see them every day)
now that Brown babies are put in cages without their mothers
(or even with their mothers)
now that weddings and funerals are postponed until further notice
(no sense in courting mourning)
now that the second amendment preempts safe grocery shopping
(and children play hide-and-don't-be-found in school,
if they're at school to begin with)
now that I haven't held a baby in more than a year
(it used to be a habit)
now that death is life
I just hope that hope is still around
(and that it starts yelling to be heard above the noise)
This was written as part of National Poetry Writing Month 2021, sparked by current events and W. Todd Kaneko’s prompt to write a poem about guns without mentioning guns.