Above Ground

by Clint Smith

Your life is only possible because of his ability to have walked through this country on fire without turning into ash.

I do not misunderstand the cruelty of war but I regret the way we talk about its casualties, how their lives become tacit admonitions, how the tyranny of a border made out of thin air means bombs are only dropped on one side of it.

I’m not sure what it means for us, not to be the one to fire the bullet but to behave as if the bullet always belonged in that chest, and not our own.

Yesterday, there were children in cages at the border stripped from the arms of their parents as they slept at night.

Nostalgia is a well-intentioned wound.

It is such a simple joy to watch you watch the world, to see you see each thing for the first time, to watch you feel sand on your feet but to not yet know its name. I

All these years later, I still can’t tell the difference between a memory and grief’s imagination.

You can still mourn the damage done by a storm even if you stood on the shore and saw it coming.

I am trying to inhale all the smoke from this burning world while asking you to hold your breath.

it’s just I am praised for the sorts of things no one ever thanks my wife for. I am adorned in a garland of gold stars for simply being in this body.

Maybe treasure is anything that reminds you what a miracle it is to be alive.

My life is made possible by trillions of tiny mysteries. I exist because of so many things I’ll never see.