To a friend, lost.
Here’s the bad news.
The snow is knee-deep
beside the road where we stand praying
for God to stop raging against leafless trees.
He comes at us like a stranger, which means not
at all. And says nothing.
The snow hides the path,
the stone, the grave dug two years past
when Dad believing his life at risk turned
gun to chest, refusing to surrender to illusory
left radicals.
My faith is shaken.
You trust plan Q.
Granted, in the beginning
I listened to air escaping from lungs
like a pin to a balloon before the explosion.
I did not intervene. Fear is an algorithm posing
as a bridge.
I unzip my skin, trying
to understand the violence of hate.
Your heart blasts smoke from its split chambers.
Let darkness discover some other door, with no one
to witness its bitterness.