these bones are marked

You speak to me of secrets,
but the storm is right there,
I can point to it
with my whole hand,
feel it with my whole heart,
the darkness
that refuses to see itself
in any mirror, refuses
to acknowledge the mirror
exists, turns its back
with a smash, kindness
shattering
in the wake of a scream.

Wait and listen, then—
someone will call for your silence,
someone will ask you to calm down,
someone will tell you to buck up,
someone will demand your acceptance,
someone will remark that it will be okay,
but I want to know:
how loud is your kindness?
how furious is your compassion?
how strong is your courage?
how weak is your apathy?
and how wide are your eyes open?

This world, right now,
offers us a new gravity,
its weight is heavier
than it was a moment ago,
full of fire
that can do two things:
ravage or warm,
and we must be mindful
of the spark,
the way it catches easily
on what’s been leeched
and blanched
beyond all human recognition,
these bones
are marked by a living ghost,
a thick howling creature
with a gentleman’s smile.
Do not tell me to look the other way
in the presence
of a monster. Do not ask
that I turn the other cheek.

Do not think I will sit
down
and stay small
when a mouth
becomes a noose,
a knife,
a burning cross,
a gleeful hate.

Remember, remember
this: in a world of burning things,
we should strive
to be water,
but do not forget
that water also drowns.