Anyone who tells you not to be afraid
should have their head examined.
Cities are burning, hillsides are burning,
and the dumpster fire of our common life
is out of control. I wish I could tell you
when it was going to get better.
I wish I could promise that better
was anywhere down this road.
I miss dancing, bodies in something
between conversation and flight.
I miss singing, the way we trusted
the air that moved between us. I miss
the casual assumption that everything
would be all right in the morning.
These days I am trying to be buoyed
by the smallest things—
a ripe tomato, a smattering of rain.
These days I am trying to remember
that songs of lamentation
are still songs.