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.
