Ophelia

I missed the orange sky. Missed hurricane winds scooping up and flinging a warm filter across our autumn sun, a whispering of earth from a far desert. I left work early to come home. To work. The world had only some welcome gold to it. I tuned in, but only briefly — this procession of friends and family acknowledging #metoo. The ones who can. I can. I unwillingly sifted my own memories the way I know we are all doing. Must we? Alongside gendered pain I stared at pictures from Somalia, Santa Rosa, Puerto Rico, Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, Palestine, Yemen. As helpless facing these other displays of power, exploitation, indifference. If only I had known, I could have gone to stand outside face upturned to receive these visiting desert sands.

My lord, he hath importun’d me with love

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love,
remember.

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