history makes great poetry, history makes terrifying poetry, history makes great poetry,

my poetry aches to be let out like the scritch scratch of cat claws at 5am on bedroom doors

its exhausting to be awoken by politics at that hour

or any hour

but i sit up knowing the ache and need won't dissipate no matter how long i avoid throwing the covers off toasty bodies

the heat of the day will catch up eventually

sweat beaded like porcupine quills and delica

if only there was enough thread to holds us together

instead we are severed stitches trying to sew up the same chasm that keeps splitting too-wide open

letting out the demons beneath and the horrors to occupy the throne

center stage

a spotlight cast in dusty orange

a distraction, tap danced diddly, don't mind the cowering in the corner

and the crimson glow of genocide and forest fire

can you feel the heat, the dampness in your seat

the creeping tide wash over your soles as you internally scream for air that won't char your lungs more than the neatly packaged Pall Malls your uncle blew into your chubby cheeked faces before he commented on your weight

family is a funny thing

the last supper before the storm, the flame, the fire

we stuff ourselves knowing

aching sides from laughter and yelling

we always pretend it's not as bad as it was

we always pretend it's not as bad as it is

and yet

us poets have too much material to work with

documenting these tragedies might not solve them, but at least we'll do our best not to forget anyone

we won't forget you

don't worry

we've already etched out your names with silverware in the table legs

those have always been great for safekeeping

(if only we were better at keeping you safe)