I am grateful
that I don't have to explain--
you just know--
you have lived the moments
of someone's last moments
and have felt the hopelessness
the powerlessness--
astounded
and aghast
at the cruelty and stupidity
of humanity--
feelings that peel
the surface from your soul
a layer at a time
as you give your skin to cover
someone else's wounds
again and again and again
until you've given your muscle
and veins and blood and nerves--
all that is left is the bone
that doesn't feel--
doesn't care
and even that is ground into dust
there is a quiet acceptance
for people like us
(people who know that evil
will never be vanquished
and that trauma never fades)
that we hold the line
to protect the masses from themselves
there is a pain that aches to be cradled
a heart that wishes
permission to shed the carapace
and a fear that asking
allowance to be weak
with those who need us to be strong
over and over and over
is exhausting to those who love us
it's not fair to them
that we give everything to strangers
and ask our families to carry
the debt
that is why we say nothing
and instead we hold each other
standing
in taught silence
in a field of iron, our hands covered in chalk
(we lift and lower and slam and drive
and sweat in the hopes that
there will be no rivulets left to spill from our eyes
because our vision has to remain clear
to witness and recognize)
mine, small and pale
in yours, thick and veined, and covered in freckles
and springy brown hair
and I am grateful
for the company,
even if I wish you weren't lost enough
to be here with me
