Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Simone Weil 43

Human life is impossible. They're investigating motivation, as if the precise wording of his intention were key. When she returns to their apartment, his wife wears a #84 hoodie and a wedding ring; their toddler waits in the back of a car. The arc of our grief has flat-lined. There are too many details to make a poem of, and no abstraction sturdy enough to rein them in. We bring survivors out in their hospital beds to speak to reporters. We put up photos of the dead and we read their names, their ages. We find stories to tell about them, weeping friends to put on camera. Soul's skin closes against the murky run-off of our anger and a sadness whose pause button has broken. What is there to write? What petitions can we sign? The photo of a doctor's track shoes filthy with blood stains appears on social media. The toddler, nested between his smiling parents, has been blurred out for his protection. 

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