In sadness, and because we keep a list that shows us the average is more than one a day. And because I've already written too many poems like this.
One a Day
We map them—
those pockets of bloodied space
between California valleys, upon snow-covered fields
Colorado's small towns, Europe's bigger cities—
where the roads take us in
without letting us out
with a prayer no god
It just takes four or more down
to make the list, to know
what's happened since yesterday.
Cellphones keep up their ringing
and on Boulevard Voltaire
the stems of weeks-old flowers snap
in the cold we feel
all the way to San Bernardino.
We make the average:
one a day, day after day. Let us
then record the boy
going for bread in Aleppo
the Jew on the bus in Tel Aviv
the torn hijab blown
into harbor past the rocks on Lesbos
the little children in Newtown—
can you remember how
they waved goodbye
never forgetting the words to the carols
we're rehearsing to sing.
2015 © Maureen E. Doallas