your name called out at
the exact moment
a woman’s body washes ashore
three thousand miles away
or a man pulling poems
from the bones of old lovers
obvious things
my wife and her fears
my lack of faith
my lack of money
the possibilities of
highways and of walls
the idea of starvation
of sunlight
through rainsoaked trees
and what if
the unborn child becomes
a weapon?
what if the ocean is bottomless?
don’t believe for a second
that any of this poetry
don’t think that
killing the killers is
the same thing as justice
and maybe
it doesn’t have to be
