The radio reports
there is a genocide happening.
For real and right now.
What am I doing?
Matching socks:
a heap of wool and cotton,
black heel to black heel
rolling, tossing and piling.
And again.
Someone was matching socks
while my family was heaving
worn brown luggage
down le rue.
Did we take a right or a left?
Toward or away from the setting sun?
I know of piles:
eyeglasses, teeth, shoes, souls—
the weight of war.
We forget
what we most need to remember:
how fragile the body
how damaged the spirit
how ragged the socks.
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