was blind or deaf
or maybe mute
said something with
her hands, with her eyes
i remember fear, but
this is nothing new
at what age do you stop
being a failed artist
and fucking grow up?
with what yardstick do
you measure failure?
i was there at the birth
of my first child, and at
the birth of my second
i was there
at the abortion
wasn’t blind and i
wasn’t deaf,
but i had no words
muttered incoherently
to some vague idea of an
indifferent god, and i
remember that my fear
was for myself, but
this was nothing new
this was nowhere warm
all of those bodies on
fire, and i couldn’t
feel my fingers
anymore