And yet there are new shoots growing

from the bamboo in the spring sunshine

and the cat is warming himself on the pavers.
The violets are ankle-deep and three snails

have left their silver trails across the path where

they exited the denseness to get to where they were
going. The neighbour’s traps in the back lane

have caught nothing; last month I opened the gate

so a rat could scurry out while the cats watched,
bewildered. A man writes a woman in ecstasy

or terror and I fling the paper across the room

because he doesn’t know or care either way.
Every place we look a man traverses a country

littered with bodies. I want to plant signs that say

here was April, here was May, here was June…
They use the passive and try to erase us. A voice

breaks the silence but they tell us we are all

human, we are flawed, we cannot do anything. No one
is asking for perfection—just courage. We’ve lit

the fire. Come out of the cave. Listen: believe those

of us who have survived. We have nothing left to lose.