precipice
it feels like we are standing
on the edge of something enormous.
like history is clearing its throat.
like maps are being redrawn in rooms
we are not invited into.
like the air has that metallic taste
before a storm.
and still…
i have a 9am meeting and i have to respond to emails.
i need to feed the cats and remember the dog’s medication.
i need to buy milk and then fold the laundry
so it doesn’t sour in the washer.
the world trembles
and i am comparing grocery prices
in fluorescent lighting.
somewhere, men in suits decide
what burns and what lives.
somewhere, someone presses a button
or drafts a bill
or signs a thing that will ripple
for decades.
and i am still standing in aisle seven
trying to decide
if i can afford the eggs.
in high school they told us
this was the place
where voices mattered.
in college they said,
if you don’t like something,
organize.
vote.
speak.
change it.
they said that was the miracle of our way.
but miracles feel expensive now.
they require time.
energy.
breath.
and most of us are tired.
we are budgeting insulin.
we are calculating gas mileage.
we are working two jobs
and still refreshing bank accounts
like maybe the numbers will bloom.
we were told
we could bend the arc.
but it is hard to bend anything
when your hands are full
just trying to survive.
there is a particular grief
in realizing
you were promised opportunity
and handed exhaustion instead.
a particular kind of fear
in knowing the machine is loud
and you are small
and still
required to show up
functional.
the 24 hour news cycle never relents,
it hums in the background
while i cook dinner.
it scrolls past
while i brush my teeth.
it flickers blue light across my ceilings
when i cannot sleep
so i control what i can.
i schedule the meeting.
i send the email.
i sweep the floor.
i donate five dollars.
i sign the petition.
i text my friends.
are you seeing this too?
tiny rebellions
of care
of resistance
of attempts
at the love we were taught.
because here is what i am learning:
history is not only written
in war rooms…
it is written
in poems typed at kitchen tables
while the headlines flash in our minds.
it is written in online forums
that spiral and soothe
in group chats
where someone finally laments
i am not okay
and the rest of us echo
we know
it is written
in the knowing glance of a stranger
across a waiting room
or sanctuary
or grocery aisle…
the quiet scan of the room
to decide
is this a place
i can be honest?
and when the answer is yes…
even barely,
something shifts
it is written in the streets
when we stand shoulder to shoulder
with strangers we just met
and somehow find the harmony.
it is written
in songs of protest
that start uncertain
and then catch their breath
a rhythm passed hand to hand
like a pulse.
until the melody stretches,
threads itself
across state lines,
across oceans…
tying us together.
the chorus travels farther than we can
farther than we ever could.
we are on the precipice…
and somehow
together,
our voices
carry it across.