In Louisville, the cops are stealing milk
and water. They fire pepper bullets,
detonate tear gas. Last night,
the National Guard shot someone.
J. tells me while I fix coffee, pouring
into my favorite mug, adding a cloud
of cream. One year ago today
we adopted our dog. On a Zoom call,
someone sneezes. The cat bangs
at the glass door. The bird feeder
grows empty. I’ve come to think
of the grackles in the yard as my
own. My sky chickens. I bought
a linocut print from Sage:
Apple Carrot Artichoke Banana.
I can’t be in the streets. Am stuck
protesting from my own home,
my immune system too fragile.
The bronchi in my lungs compromised.
But bodies are already out there dying.
One killed in Louisville last night. City I love.
City we’re moving to, soon. Every day I ask
God to help me feel more, and identify
what I am feeling, as a piece of my recovery.
We are in the process of boxing our stuff.
Selling possessions. Making donations.
We carry our hope and our loss with us
into each room, wondering where it should go.