Would’st  

Somewhere, a raven screeches
for its own semblance of peace.
In another place, a mother cries
for her long-lost son and, here,
I am, saying nothing. On another
timeline, the mountains tumble
with a sneeze, taking with them
the columbines and the pine trees,
all the riverbeds and any soliloquies
left on the breeze, porcupines,
mountain cats, and all the sisters of
swans left in streams. Sisters, we
don’t know where you’ve been.

There are other planes, somewhere,
which don’t foster sensitivities nor
soliloquies; they don’t stand for
porcupines and they scream at
ravens who are screeching for
peace. That’s a world I would
rather not be. That’s a world
I would rather not be. That’s
a world I would rather not see
reflected on television screens,
heard in the whispers behind
screams, felt in the coffin sheets
of lost kin. That’s a world I would
rather not leave to the annals of
discrepancy. That’s a world
I would rather not leave.

Stay gold,
Sabrina