I tell you nothing new when I say
here we are again, unable to claim
many moments of relief
from the confirmable gloom, though
there was a time, before news became
ubiquitous, when it was possible
to close our eyes and hide in our rooms.
The excitement of bones found
in mass graves—not ours, the remains
of mastodons and dinosaurs—told us
something of our past. Now we see
face down in ditches
our neighbors with whom we once
broke bread, whose children played
in our yards, and everywhere
colossal denials of blame.
I tell you nothing new, Andre. I dare
boring you, Miguel, with what
you already know, the enemy
suddenly the enemy, Down on your knees,
motherfucker, for being down on
your knees to the wrong god.
I dare boring you because the shovels
are blades, the dirt is bloody, and I need
to remind myself of the creatures
we are and have been—remnants
everywhere.No need, really, to dig.