Early January, Mid-Regime
The sun’s tongue stuck to river ice
all the birds lob their calls
from hidden places in the trees
shall I leave my flannel nest
I have resources
It is so cold here
nowhere else could it be hot
you claim the ice is melting
I hear ice cold
If I stanch the not-yet-bleeding
bandage the anticipated wounds
is this compassion
Resources are limited
In a line a thousand people long
a thousand sufferings deep
a girl asks for water a boy for warmth
they are already dead
Where are the resources
All the orchestras are playing
some so far away nothing can be heard
all the orchestras are playing
this national tragedy
Welcome to town it is heavily defended
it is well resourced you are a stranger here
your life is now our resource
why can’t everything be this easy
Here is a riddle no one can solve —
what do we call a pregnant woman
forced to bear the child
Let’s not talk about this at the dinner table
have some compassion
for the others here
If I leave my flannel nest I will be cold
if I am cold I cannot access my resources
let the birds call