My tea has gone cold and I’ve said nothing.
Silence permeates these parts of me
which can’t make enough sense of what’s happening
to find the words
which might encompass it with clarity.

feel like buzzwords which bounce off skins thickened by decades of inundation
Of being told I should be glad it isn’t happening here
Of being told I should be glad it isn’t me
Of being told it’s complicated.
As if the brutal eradication of an entire people
As if the barbarous slaughter of children and families,
for the sake of land grab
of resource theft
of cruelty for the sake of cruelty
Is complicated
Or even new.
As if the word glad should ever have been a part of this conversation.

When I was young and rallied for and against all the things,
I recall my youthful dismay that everyone there with me
already knew
it was all wrong.
How could the choir we were preaching to ever hope to be louder than their bombs?
We sang anyway.
Integrity demands defiance.

I was reminded recently that no matter where
no matter what
no matter when
There’s always someone with a sign that says,
“I can’t believe I still have to protest this shit”.
What’s the point if nothing ever changes?
The realization wears away at my hope
like a leaky tap with a slow drip.
It’s barely noticeable,
until the water bill comes due.

I can’t believe I still have to protest this shit.
But that doesn’t mean I should stop.
The crime of an apathetic heart carries a weight I don’t have any desire to sustain.

My tea has gone cold but my heart is warming
to the notion
that my silence suggests complicity
Rather than rage.