by robert okaji
This. This is good.
If We Burn
What flares instead to replace our
privileged nights? And which
assemblage of words could reorder these
deaths into comprehension,
change I can’t breathe from epitaph
to actuated plea for help?
Are words ever enough?
Can we stack our indifference and fear
into a mile-high pyre, and torching it
watch them rise to nothingness,
disappearing through the clouds
into the streaming light of cold, dark stars?
Raise your hands and sing. Blow softly
upon the ember. Inhale and recall.