WEBVTT

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And the kind of companion poem,
I wrote the end of last year.

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I remember seeing some kind
of press conference, where

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one of those people was talking
about how only two children had

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died in the
detention center, you

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know, in the camps
and somehow bragging

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about this, that it was
only two that had died.

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And thinking, this
can't be real.

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This does not seem real.

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And I remember that
this was all happening.

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Somebody was under
an umbrella speaking.

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And I don't-- that
could be true.

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It could be something I made up.

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And they kept talking
about in our custody,

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our custody, our custody.

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And they kept using
that word custody,

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which seems so strangely
legalistic and weirdly

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parental.

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"Our Custody."

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This year was
serious in a dumb way

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and hilarious like a
grave cut into a smile.

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Dreams constantly
died without names.

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We listen to the Earth say
nothing and new everything.

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The Earth, a grave
we throw words into.

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Seeds, in a dark, arctic
closet, wait for the new garden

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tended by machines.

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One whose name will become
dust said and the shadow

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under an umbrella.

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In our custody, only two died.

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So it was a good year.

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What can we say?

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They were children
and will always be.

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