Everyone I left back in FLake is drowning.
I miss their phone calls and play back the messages.
It sounds like them, but in a container
their voices calling to me from under the water
and it’s bad news.
They want me back
but I don’t go (often).
They want me to stick out my hand and grab them,
but I know better.
I know that a person will pull you in with them
to try to save themselves
push your head under water
a panicked, thrashing, hysterical behavior
I know- I used
to live there too, in the blue.
I have since curbed my altruism.
I sailed to a new shore
and destroyed the ship when I landed.
Not a conqueror, a refugee.
I made a home and learned the language.
I made some new friends and I try to live
peaceably amidst this war
and to stand up for what is right and just
and for what I believe in.
Still, I think of my family out there,
broken fingers that don’t make a hand
symptoms of this greater struggle that we are all in
against poverty, against hatred breeding hatred, and the kind of
willful ignorance that war creates, I think about
the casualties of this economy that we have all become
(the whole world paying for it) and I hope to have
some kind of impact on the next batch of us
who dream of an impossibly beautiful and bright future
for fear that we cannot even save ourselves.