And the kind of companion poem, I wrote the end of last year.
I remember seeing some kind of press conference, where
one of those people was talking about how only two children had
died in the detention center, you
know, in the camps and somehow bragging
about this, that it was only two that had died.
And thinking, this can't be real.
This does not seem real.
And I remember that this was all happening.
Somebody was under an umbrella speaking.
And I don't-- that could be true.
It could be something I made up.
And they kept talking about in our custody,
our custody, our custody.
And they kept using that word custody,
which seems so strangely legalistic and weirdly
parental.
"Our Custody."
This year was serious in a dumb way
and hilarious like a grave cut into a smile.
Dreams constantly died without names.
We listen to the Earth say nothing and new everything.
The Earth, a grave we throw words into.
Seeds, in a dark, arctic closet, wait for the new garden
tended by machines.
One whose name will become dust said and the shadow
under an umbrella.
In our custody, only two died.
So it was a good year.
What can we say?
They were children and will always be.