I’d like to do the world a favor and remove the n
from violent, so the fields and bruises can turn

purple then heal then fade. Or I’d like
to fashion a new hue and have us all agree

on a name for it, or at least agree on its newness.
My children have high hopes, but I’m tentative,

preferring the word hope-ful which frees
more room for oxygen tanks and bodies

to litter the path as the next group
heads up the mountain. I’d like us to agree

that yes it’s midnight on Sunday and although
moonlight slaps against the boat of next week

and days rise up on shore like so many
crooked slabs of granite, we should each

press on through the thickness of afternoon
despite the thinning air. I’d like to free

poetic words at the hem of this lacy shore
to remind me that while my brother

once mocked the red brick church
of silly made-up things, people do shake hands there

once a week. They do this despite a man from TV
who stains the white office and poisons

our shared air. Despite the red boot of hate
that marks the soil day after day after day

after day, people do this. Despite all this.
So when my daughter texts ANXIETY

from her second-floor bedroom, I ascend,
adjusting my mask as I climb the stairs.

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stunning image by artist and poet Stuart M Buck, find his online store (and humorous inspiration via his Twitter feed.