my heart is broken and there is nothing I can do, again
the unholy trinity is fight, flight, or freeze
and when the shooting is in pittsburg, or orlando, or las vegas
and not down the street
I can’t rush out of my house with an armful of blankets and casseroles
or bring someone water
or bring my gentle dog to come and lean on their leg
to distract them for a while. These are the things
that I was taught to do after a crisis:
give someone a chair
a glass of water
a plate of food
bring over someone whose fur they can stroke
listen and listen and listen.
My fingers twitch with the need to peel potatoes
shove something in the oven. I want to go to
the linen closet and pull down the softest blankets
get in the car and go. Bring a shovel and a tarp
to help haul away the rubble
so the survivors do not have to stare
at the ruins of their lives every day, left right there
in the open like a monument to the profane.
The clicks of a keyboard seem like a mockery
as I hunt for a local charity
that seems likely to provide a fuzzy afghan
or a dog who leans on people’s knees
I haven’t won the lottery lately so
I can give a blanket’s worth today
but not much more. Maybe a sack of potatoes
someone can roast.
And I’ll light candles in the dark, and hope
that the small fire lit here
comforts someone miles away
because if I can do nothing else
I can remember
I can try here
and I can be ready here
should hell come visiting.
