the poem i was going to write

Lydia Labovitz (she/her)

i was going to write a happy little poem
about a first kiss
or about true love
or about a place of joy and acceptance,
built under the brilliant stars

but then i awoke
from a cracked mirror of a dream
and i looked up
at the red stars in the sky
at the red lines on the flag
at the red blots on the map
at the red eyes in the dark
at the red blood on the knives

i was going to write a happy little poem
but it's so hard
to find something to be happy about
when we remember
half the world wants us dead


but i'm still writing
it's not a happy little poem
it's not a thing of hope
it's not a thing of love

but we're still words on the page
we're still people in the world
we're still loves, and lives, and voices
that might still be heard

call it writing out of spite
or rage, or despair
but i'd like to imagine

some day, not too far out of reach
where i can look back on this
and sit down under the brilliant stars
to write a happy little poem
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