Am I Allowed

Am I allowed

to be happy

while the Rohingya women,

torn at night,

rise in the tattered morning light

and place one foot in front of the next?

Am I allowed

to be happy

while the Congalese's idea

of a brokered-peace

is almost as dangerous

as the war itself?

To be happy

while walls are built

and borders constructed

As the world edges

closer to a steep and rocky precipice?

Am I allowed

While my daughter labors alone

And while my mother waits

for some small invisible spark

to light her last days?

Of my womb scars, my history

you have pardoned me

Telling me to it's ok

to put them down

to lay down

to even dance.

But you aren't

my god

my memory

my conscience.

These things

burn and sear

leaving me

unable to sleep

or to wake

Reminding me

That I don’t have free will

And that the choice

to be happy

is not

without consequences

nor without burden.