Arms

fire

Blood, rubble, hate, outrage
what hysterical god made
forgiveness and reconciliation
so difficult?

It appears we can never walk together
our words congeal and dissolve on the screen of I
blame assigned as precisely as a misguided missile
as carefully as a spent cartridge on concrete.

Miles and years away we both thresh pain
seeking to express this upwelling
that language
yours or mine
cannot

perhaps dance or music
or silence
but not the thought-filled one
it must be the empty cup

raised in expectation
that it will be filled
someday
before my arm
crumbles in the wind.

How do we
antidote our histories
to take the next step
together
arm in arm?