Poetry

Renee Good just wanted to go home

To her kids

6, 12, and 15

I've watched the video

I didn't want to

But I needed to see for myself if she really tried to run the agent over

She didn't

i sit on the classroom floor.

the room is dark and cold.

i press my back against the wall.

the door is barricaded with a chair.

my teacher stands in front of it, as

it takes me

my arms daring to surround you in the comfort of a hand sewn quilt

patched together with culture, stories, memories, love

it takes you

taking hold, not running; letting the tears fall down your face

I am scared

Because my best friend is not ok anymore and is moving across the country

Because I don’t know if I will succeed in college and I ignored so many things on my to-do list

Being a dreamer is hard, for all of us. All the authors, poets, musicians, and artists.

For those who aren’t any of these let me explain it for you.

The snow was melting

when you talked to me

when they talked to you

when we stood with them

and their thinning perfume

their black backpacks

their straightened hair

their plans of the ride home.

In this whole world,

Snow and sun and metal and yet

You pick me?

Your favorite,

first in the morning and last at night

sometimes I think you’re foolish

the way you’ve placed me among the stars

Why can’t we all just love each other?

Why does there have to be so much hate?

Can we ever learn to trust and accept those who are not like us or believe different things?

Since I could eat, I have loved eating. Since I could open

my mouth and shriek for sustenance I have been in love with food.

And it has always loved me back -

tacos, grilled cheese, steak, sushi, matzo ball soup,

Claim your rocking chairs and
Your solipsistic sunsets,
But close your eyes and listen.
The cicadas have silenced, and listen!
Is it quiet?

How do we live 

Knowing others cannot?

How do we breathe 

Knowing our comfort is at the hands of hidden devastation?

How do we laugh

when all around us Tears seem to be the only logical response?

Pretty. 
A word I have been called a few times. 
But why can’t I see it? Why do I look at others and think they’re beautiful. 
Why can’t I see myself the same way?