what child is this

with skin of dirt & honey

who climbs & clamors & clings to the cruel hole

where their parents’ bodies were just minutes ago

whose skin the color of the Rio Grande I’ve never seen but Jovane once assured me is just as

wet & wistful as the mud of the Yakima River

wow I say to no one in particular

womp womp says a white-haired

white collar ordering Mexican food

while the waiter reaches for her pen a knife a

wailing in the distance

what assholes

we all whisper at our phones

when we finally come up with anything at all to say

when words are worthless

why is a barren question so taking

wickedness at its word seems hollow so

wallow with me for a minute as

weeping nightly my son mourns the end of each day

wary that the overwhelming world will be here when he wakes

what child is this

with skin of dirt & honey