My own grief so sharp for children I don’t know
whose parents I’ve never seen, never met.
What to do with it, where to place it, how
to dislodge it, crouching in some tight corner,
from my body? It will not be removed.
I wander directionless, hungry like everyone
for the why as if knowing why would somehow soothe,
knowing it won’t and knowing too that there is no why.
A pall has settled over us all and I do not know how
or why a wise man might say to this
I don’t mind what happens
as if all that might happen is
a poorly timed thunderstorm, flat tire,
cancelled flight and not, for example,
a life cancelled or twenty or twenty seven.