For George

I can’t write a poem about this.

It is awful, indescribably awful, to watch the places I know so well go up in flame. To know that men I know have fought so hard against one another, people who, under different circumstances, may have shared a beer in my backyard, talking over the noise as their children ran screaming through a sprinkler. It is heartbreaking to be so far away from my friends who are risking their lives to convince us they matter, and even worse to be glad for the safety that distance affords me, to feel guilt flooding over relief.

I can’t write a poem about this.

I don’t know enough and I feel too much and no vocabulary could possibly convey even half of what needs to be said. So I weep, and I pray, and I donate, and I educate, and I advocate and I listen. And I know it won’t bring him back, won’t bring justice to his killers or comfort to his family, but I can promise this: my children will know his name. We will not be complacent or complicit.