i have witnessed the burn

if it were in the cards, you wouldn’t

have bad dreams, you wouldn’t

wake in the dark to wonder, you wouldn’t

hold the cat and think about crying, you wouldn’t

think to the future in tombstone terms, you wouldn’t

march on the road for hope and rage, you wouldn’t

call the number, you wouldn’t

have the conversation, you wouldn’t

hope that voting makes a difference, you wouldn’t

think of all the times a stranger said you’re going to hell, you wouldn’t

bite your tongue when he said you ought to just smile, you wouldn’t

be one of those loud dykes, you wouldn’t

write poems about artists and graves, you wouldn’t

light candles for the dead, you wouldn’t

hope for more than candles, you wouldn’t

ask for too much, you wouldn’t

exist as you are but

i do, i’m here

the poet stands among a red dawn sky and i

have witnessed the burn. i have become

so much myself and i refuse now

to make myself swallow ashes.