I have lost myself again
in the ordinariness of things.
Or perhaps this is the stuff of living—
waking up to a new day, carrying
a prayer of gratitude on my lips.
The face in the mirror is still mine,
despite its subtle changes. I like the same
old things: the quietness of mornings,
the sound of laughter, to be seen,
to be touched, to be loved in all the ways.
And then there is my sensitivity, which I
wish to change. A New Year’s resolution
that began as a needle in my chest,
weaving thick layers around my heart.
Something to make me tougher, to guard
this softness, to make this body impenetrable.
Yet here I am, so close to the end of January,
and I have failed at indifference, again.
How can I stand still? Of what use is the numbness?
There are countries at war, homes blasted to ruins.
I pull my curtains to let the light in and a child
disappears. I close my eyes to sleep at night
and bodies are scattered like fruits in a field.
Everything in the world erupts and sinks into
darkness. I am here, but also there, trapped
in this cruel madness, running and screaming
down the street, panic rising in me, weeping
and pleading for all their lives, for all our lives.