The Lord Is Near To The Brokenhearted

Psalm 34:18

I grieve for the families who have suffered an

unfathomable loss,” the governor says on Twitter.

When asked about guns, she points to the clouds

before settling her eyes on a carrier pigeon.

“We need to be prepared for a water shortage.”

I think of the river, Colorado, how it once flowed

freely across the border - like me trying to escape

a killing field. America is burying its children.

When the war breaks out my legs are immersed

in plastic, stones underfoot. Tap water warmed

then cooled rehydrates skin. I hear the steady

march of waves up the beach. Then Spanish, a

tone I do not understand until I’m shown the video.

Little car, old man, grey tank. Ukraine. Here, this

salon, we usually talk about the beach, the gulf, the

tourists in between. Although, we once whispered

about men, Federales racing towards city center, as

if it was unusual. The boys are hoarding guns again.

Like a dam devouring a lake on drought parched land,

thirst is a terrible thing. In our grief we notice the terns

mistaking them for seagulls. Graceful with rowing

wingbeats, they carry sadness in their breath. I hug

the girl sweeping remnants of hair into a dustbin.

We do not talk about death, just the absence of life.