no words to speak.
It’s not my song to sing,
not my grief to wail,
yet if I remain silent,
it hurts those I wish
not to hurt the most.  

This poem is not
about me. It never
was. Insignificance
protected in white
skin. Willing to offer
as protection, acknowledged
as privilege in a fucked-
up world. I am a mother  

who collapsed howling
screaming pain in empathy
that cuts deeper than I ever
imagined as worst fear.
It’s not my worst fear  

for my son’s fate. Beyond
comprehensible. I would
burn the motherfucking
world to the ground. Tear
my skin from my bones.
Gnashing, snarling menace  

to fucking society, I do
not understand. This is not
my poem to write. I hold
vigil protecting my son’s
spheroidal blood cells
from an unknown virus.  

It never occurred to me
to worry about the cops.  

And that is exactly the problem.