I Don’t Know

It is said that in these times, we need our poets. There is nothing I can give, but words and love. 

I Don’t Know

I don’t know how a man lies in bed tonight
when his wife is dead.

I don’t know how hate is cultivated and cared
for and nurtured like a hot house orchid.

Hate can’t come this easy.

Can it?

Isn’t it something that needs attention
and support to flourish?

I hate myself every day and
I know how much work that takes.
It’s exhausting.

And this seemed effortless.

Wasn’t it?

Hate – it’s planting a tree,
from barely a sapling
and feeding and covering
and measuring water
by the dropful and
the moment it reaches
its height.

Then bringing to slaughter
with slashes and gashes
and hacks
enough to draw blood.

I don’t know where the
next blood is.

Walking home?
buying a book?
Saying a prayer?

To which gods?
To which men?

Is it this hard?

The sun rose in the city today
even though we couldn’t see it,
keeping itself grey and quiet, rain for tears
as the names were read.

I don’t know when we’ll see
the sun again.

I don’t know how we
learn to put love in
place of policies and
protection.

I don’t know how to
not be afraid and look
for exits before even entering.

I don’t know how we build a
bridge in this city so full of them
without each other.

I don’t know.
Maybe together,
we learn.