I buy chocolate and don’t feel afraid.
I work in the snail room where I move very slowly.
The books are miraculously wet, still
they hold their words.
I part at the artwork.
I pour milk into the honey mixture and feed it back to the bees.
I hope that doesn’t fuck them up.
I travel ten miles by foot and get blisters.
I drive by the streets where the shooting happened.
I drive by during my lunch hour and wish for roses.
I return to the coldest, longest night with my sister’s
children, the youngest turning somersaults in a pink tu-tu.
This morning from the bed, my eyes open and upside down
I see the pupil of the sun.
I wish the child who was killed last night would return.
I don’t know you at all, child.
I could be your mother.