from, not about

 when stories carry through the air, across the ocean waves,

when bombs are bursting somewhere else, creating others' graves;

when helping hands are lifting broken buildings off of souls,

and carry, with full force, the weight of how to be alone;

how do we move and breathe here,

what part do we now own?

three words do I adhere to, three words which I now shout:

collect your stories 

from.

from,

and not 

about.

what's required of 

the set of eyes 

that looks with ease away 

from 

dads who hold their babies heads and arms in separate space, 

from

shrapnel through the necks of infants; whole families erased.

from 

screaming children only known as WCNSF

from

men who lift the boulder to discover what is left.

from

streets we once called streets that now only are 

gone

and from the homes of humans who've been justified as pawns.

mothers cut 

the blood-let of their lineage 

from their tongues;

their weeping is a whisper

bodies cover all the ground,

dust in lungs

the noise

the crush,

the sound

the screams

this distance seems

remarkable.

Weep, 

I weep,

I ask my grown self what to do.

When I first learned of genocide and residential schools,

the anger felt 

created space

and over time it grew.

I vowed naively

if this ever happened, 

I would DO.

But what?

I put my little kids to bed. 

I keep these stories from them, I keep them in my head.

Every time I tender-kiss their tiny little toes

or help tie up a pair of shoes

or gently wipe a nose,

I think of how I baby them, how gentle I can be,

I see how hard they cry, when they've only skinned a knee.

I wonder how they would react, to being split in half,

or seeing every piece of life they know reduced to ash.

I wonder what they'd sound like, if they knew that I was gone,

and daddy 

and gramma

and grampa

and aunty

and cousin

and every

every

every

one.

to mow them down in person, or with a button press,

blood spilled under fallen stone, or blood seen on a dress;

burned life in a safe room, or crushed life in debris;

What difference does it make from whence you launch your killing spree? 

What life is worth more than the rest? What home, what family?

some will justify the first, while some defend the last,

jargon, label, rhetoric, 

belief, idea, caste.

Rally, protest, advocate,

debate, dispute, embrace.

Honor, listen, witness: 

but do not look away.

hate does not solve hate

hate does not push hatred out

hate is countered when we listen

 from,

not just about.