We hear it

from a dark, deep well, resounding

year after year, century after century,

even now,

in the truth of art

and the silence of indifference,

in softly spoken rejection and denial

and unspoken politeness and civility. We hear it

in bombs of war

and flashing blue sirens streaking past us,

screaming like a mother’s cry

before dirt is shoveled onto her child’s coffin. We hear it

in the music and small talk of leisure and work

and the evening news of gun violence

or dead boys who stood on a street corner

while the school bell rang. We hear it

in prayers behind faces and walls

that color and cover our frailty and indiscretions,

in muted tolerance of poverty

and intolerance to differences,

in public protests to take back privilege

that we feel has been taken. We hear it,

as if, long ago, the sun died,

and the storms that ravaged us never cleared.

Originally published in Hole in the Head Review

Spit