"Suffering."
This isn't the answer.
The answer is my hand on the table,
saying what we thought privacy was
on your forehead cupping the temple where
the fine hairs begin.
What origin begins with hair the tenderest movement
out ends with bodies lining graves and inability
to pronounce the phonemes of your now foreign language.
The language itself an answer.
The woman isn't answering the phone.
The woman isn't answering anyone.
The woman isn't.
The woman is chemically altering from the moment she is ignited.
The woman is a girl.
My palm across your temple, your eyes
which follow me as I remove it.
Tied to a tree isn't the answer.
Tied to the back of a truck isn't the answer
as it moves over miles.
Isn't the cold hospital room, isn't, "You're
not my daughter anymore and you'll never be my son."
This answer is evolving.
This poem isn't.
Recall to me the names inscribed on sheets, almost, almost.
Your palm as it cuts my temple covering the left eye.
The language itself.
This isn't a wave as it takes a whole island,
then buries the island beneath the island.