I was always told that poetry
could add beauty to the world
and that words should be shared
to engage the audience in a story
or be inspirational, experimental,
even political, and such—but war
changes all that. Newspapers
report an 83-year-old woman
was raped by Russian soldiers,
that three-fourths of Ukrainian
children have been displaced,
that mass genocide is a goal
for some despicable dictator.
And online images confirm
the bloody journalism I read
by incessant doom-scrolling
on my laptop computer
in the comfort of my home
between answering emails
and checking social media.
Then I think about November
being just around the corner,
the memory of violence still
fresh from the last election;
democracy has always been
a fragile system to maintain,
often not strong or adaptive
like, say, an ongoing virus.
But what is to gain by
indulging fear? It is just
that I am exhausted; humans
are exhausting and nightmares
dreadfully faithful, so as you
can see, I am able no longer
to write about beautiful things.
