I live by a conservation area
where we stopped shooting birds
and unearthing burial grounds.
a “post – violence” place
where we’ve made up for our mistakes
which is more lie than redemption
and too little too late.

if we had enough hands
we would cradle every bone,
place flowers on every grave.
it’s the same reason why I
mimic my father’s mannerisms
so I don’t forget his face.
it’s too late to do anything else.

every morning I watch the birds
and I tell them that it’s too late.
we’ve already slaughtered the planet
and now we’re pretending that
pulling the knife back out
will fix everything, but it only
makes it easier to watch it bleed.