The Boy And His Grief
We all come to this sea at a time,
wondering whether to drown.
There’s a hole in our heads,
and we’re filling it all day.
There’s a shadow painting
our heart into a ghost.
Music plays inside the body,
turning the brain into a party
hall in Alabaska.
We don’t understand even what
the body needs sometimes.
The steps of survival are shaky;
steadying the head is a war.
The country’s news is a blade
that manifests in the heart.
If your brother isn’t missing,
he’s hungry wherever he is.
You don’t like listening to the radio;
a woman slumbles and loses
her breath from news of bombs
on the radio. The day after,
everybody forgets the bomb,
but the bomb doesn’t forget them.
The wall clock moves,
our headaches follow the pace.
A new day, a new face of disaster.
We’re walking ghosts,
waiting for our time of dust.
Our roads are silent demons,
their teeth wide and pointed,
waiting to execute their plan
and make the country a sea of blood.
It could be me, you, or someone you know.
Every day, there’s a bloodshed.