Every hour belongs to a certain day but there is

a moment, a single atom of time, or two

or three huddling inside a memory,

 

they are only our own, whether they allow

a long breath or, together, they can cause

significant destruction.

 

My life can be told in moments

that I considered for days,

not remembering but wondering

 

how much I missed. There are things

that people said I’m still busy

waging war against

 

And then, there are the moments

that preceded the moments I remember.

Was the pain already unfathomable?

 

I know this is the moment when a poem

ought to offer some relief or leave you

a little less uneasy about our lives,

 

But I can’t, in good conscience, say

something that would stitch what is still torn,

what refuses to stay back still has something to say.