Soaked Mourning
That this spring has been
Hard is not a fucking joke
Misted rain, missed trains
Matched caps to rain jackets
City spun w/ un-ripened
Buds shunted to trees, timid
Months of waiting, days dying
When I read you—news you un-
Ravel the gore & insides of me
Us, bussed to home & families, jobs
& each hustled day Pick up any
Paper or feed See the mouths
Of the mothers & their empty arms
See the hollows of their children
The way they/we wait for some reck-
Oning Some way to navigate how
Bullets bury in skin, the way hate
Is a plume, feathers & flaunt all
Choked & ravaging, blistered, burn-
Ishing & blooming a hot wreckage.