Every Wound is One Wound

The man who cuts our grass every two weeks likes to stop
and chat in the middle of mowing. This week, he pushed

his headphones down to his neck because he wanted to talk
about the book he's reading and can't seem to put down:

histories of wartime in the Pacific, including the Japanese
occupation of my country. He's stupefied by the record

of atrocity after atrocity: young girls herded off to become
comfort women, babies shishkebobed by bayonets for being 

in the way of advance. When we say back then, supposedly 
we mean golden years we might look at with present-day 

nostalgia. But histories of brokenness and violence keep 
coming back, weeds wanting to overtake any good 

growth. Yesterday, a man stood in a court of law and said 
a president, just because he was president, could assasinate 

his political rival and be immune from prosecution. 
And yesterday, there was a moment when I could not 

seem to tell anymore where the unassailable sadness 
of this world and my personal sorrows begin, 

and where they end. But you gave me 
a kiss of such simple tenderness it made me weep.