Mythos

 
Again I break my vow
of no headlines. And again 
I renounce the world — we can
never foresee where despair 
will stake its claim. 
Night thins across the Willamette.
I remind myself that cloud
enveloping rough-edged hills
is not a metaphor — that empathy,
luminous and opaque,
must be the language
of any god worth our love.
The weekend ambles in.
Zucchini bread,
Colombian pour-over lovingly tended,
a long breath of the forest nearby. 
But evolution always 
has blood beneath its fingernails.
News. Heart
helpless before its own abyss. 
Empathy shatters.
I decry our failure
to teach critical thinking. 
My failure to practice it.
Yes: I may just hate them, 
these minds unschooled 
in the switchbacks of life,
as much as they hate
whoever is coming to steal
their mythos. — And only now, awash 
in vivisection, am I pierced: 
ten black corpses. 
Say it: helpless.
Say: these are not metaphors.
Say: unfiltered pain,
the me I can no longer hold

And perhaps — perhaps — say:
wounds that may
one day unbind us
.