for the both
somewhere, a mother unclenches her jaw
for the first time in years.
her child is home.
alive, though not whole.
none of us are.
mere miles away
a father digs through dust,
whispering names like droplets,
each syllable a world that once was.
we call this peace.
we call this progress.
we call this
what our ancestors would have wanted.
i call it what it is:
a wound too deep for language.
a grief too loud to name.
so i light a candle.
and i say:
may the light find every lost one.
may the fire stop at the edge of the children.
may no one’s safety require another’s ruin.
i place my hand on my heart and my belly.
i say:
i will not let them make monsters
out of my people again—
not by dying,
and not by killing.
i call on my ancestors who fled
and those who stayed,
those who fought back,
those who hid,
those who chose life anyway.
i call on the mothers
who have no graves to visit.
i call on the fathers
who dig with bare hands.
i call on all who breathe in smoke
and keep saying never again
until it truly means everyone.
let this be the turning.
let this be the truth-telling.
let this be the end
of choosing whose blood counts.
amen, and also—
enough.


Oh, Emilia. OH. WOW. Thank you. Again and again. This part wrecked me:
"i will not let them make monsters
out of my people again—
not by dying,
and not by killing."
This is so beautiful Emilia. It gets to the heart of it. And just what I'm feeling. Thank you.