What We Don’t Talk About

There is so much we don’t talk about.
It is Sunday, and churchgoers are bustling
around brunch buffets and charcuterie plates.
They’ll see names like Clinton, Sanders, Trump and Cruz
out of the corner of their crowfeet eyes.

We won’t see the remnants of Malawi and Mozambique –
200 dead, heartache by the thousands.
Ethiopian droughts, 350,000 children left without food,
they’ll never know terms like brunch buffets and charcuterie plates.

The fires that eat away at the border between China and Mongolia;
the women that live behind the veil of silence and censorship.

How does their culture survive?
How do their stories survive?
How do they survive?

And now there’s talk of militarizing the moon.
Stripping away whatever purity is left,
maybe we are all just broken angels with busted wings.

Or maybe all of the angels have come and gone,
the devils live here now.

So many of us just want to paint this earth blood red.
100,000 gang members thrive in Chicago –
don’t shoot, hands up.
On your knees, hands together,
pray, pray, pray.
That’s what the churchgoers are taught.
Stand in choirs, unanimous amens – we’re supposed to believe, aren’t we?

Sit, stand, hands up, four Sunday psalms. Four Sunday songs.
If there is a God, maybe He can tell me where we all went so wrong?

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