She calls a closed-door
Meeting to denigrate
The object of her scorn,
Win the latest fabricated battle
Against a monster with
The temerity to follow
A different path,
Lust for power mutilating truth,
Maiming kindness,
Destroying the innocent
To reassure herself she didn’t lose.
The washer and dryer
Sit unused since
Her death;
He says she really
Did a great job
With them.
He doesn’t use them,
Not because he doesn’t
Know how to, but because
He thinks it’s a chore
Better left to
Someone else.
Culture of violence:
Shots ring out with no one
Courageous enough to
Do something about it,
Even when children die.
Culture of violence:
Women systematically
Put down, controlled,
Pumping out babies for
Some dominant reactionary.
Culture of violence:
Children hit for not
Following draconian,
Arbitrary rules imposed
By broken parents.
Culture of violence:
Innocent people killed
For nothing else than
The color of their skin
And someone’s insecurity.
Culture of violence:
Marginalizing and ostracizing
Human beings who don’t
Look or sound like
The herd.
Culture of violence:
Having their rights denied
Because of whom they love,
Being made to feel
Less than others.
Culture of violence:
People in power shaping
The rules to benefit
Only them, relegating
Others to deprivation.
Culture of violence:
Permanent war ripping
Apart bodies, psyches,
Families, the fabric
Of civilized society.
Culture of violence:
Shaping discourse to fit
A narrative of hate
And fear instead of
Hope, kindness, peace.
She keeps wishing
For a different result
Although history
Tells her that
Nothing will change,
Everything will remain
Exactly as it is now.
How to restructure the past?
She wonders,
An impossibility
She has not yet
Given up on.
He can see that
She loves doing this more
Than anything,
A dream finally
Identified, acted upon,
Yet not quite what
He thinks it should be.
He says something
Unhelpful.
A humdrum bureaucrat
Sitting behind a nondescript
Desk in a characterless room,
Mechanically filling out
Form after form, as he was
Told to do by somebody,
It doesn’t matter who.
All just numbers, inert objects
To be shuffled around,
Statistics filling page
After page after page.
He takes a sip of coffee,
Picks up the phone to call
His wife about dinner.
I’m not sure whether
He disapproves or
Is utterly perplexed
By what I’ve just said,
Although I’m certain
He doesn’t understand
Anything beyond his own
Unconscious reaction,
Empathy not being
One of his strong suits.
Too many times.
This one was the last.
How do I know?
I’m different now
And they’re the same,
Change not in
Their vocabulary.
Although no one can tell
From the outside,
There are many seemingly
Insignificant events that
Send him into paroxysms
Of discomfort and anxiety,
His mind overwhelmed by
Intrusions he has no choice
But to endure, disproportionate
Reactions to abstractions,
A tight smile the only hint of
The incessant turmoil within.
