By Rachel Landes
It is rainy and soggy and sad. The white-knuckled clouds are pressing down on me, and I feel like a fizzy drink all shaken up.
We hit a red light. The car stops. A man, wrapped in a shawl, walks up to our car. He holds his hand out, I turn my face away.The light blinks green. We carry on.
But I cannot carry on. His face haunts me.
Because in this country we are supposed to care. And I have not been doing enough caring.
And I think it is hard to. And so we pretend that we do not hurt and that we do not feel. But why, why, why, when our pain is the very proof that we are alive?
It is rainy and soggy and sad. The white-knuckled clouds are pressing down on me, and I feel like a fizzy drink all shaken up.
We hit a red light. The car stops. A man, wrapped in a shawl, walks up to our car. He holds his hand out, I turn my face away.The light blinks green. We carry on.
But I cannot carry on. His face haunts me.
Because in this country we are supposed to care. And I have not been doing enough caring.
And I think it is hard to. And so we pretend that we do not hurt and that we do not feel. But why, why, why, when our pain is the very proof that we are alive?
Tags:
Poetry