We should not seek the peace that comes before the fight

Twenty-two veterans a day

contrive and execute

their own death.

And how many who try today

will die tomorrow?

A friend writes poems

about vets who learn

to walk again,

the first of many thresholds

he will cross.

Word comes today

that Afghan soldiers

have retaken Kunduz.

Taliban vow retaliation.
Overhead, U.S. jets breathe fire.

How many will do a warrior’s dance

in celebration of survival

while hope and meaning

bleed out of casually abused

and uncounted broken bodies?

A friend writes poetry

about the anguish of witness,

which, she says,

is really the lament

of the powerless.

She lies awake at night

counting the stumble of victims

and by day writes

rambling questions

about why she cannot sleep.

What about the Syrians,

slogging through the surf,

she asks, when they lay down

to sleep, do they count the children

who remain alive?

Word comes that the court

has ruled that guilty enough will do

and the hangman rues the day

he took this job,

his shoulders slumped by so much toil.

Word comes that the court

has ruled that the verdict

does not apply to officers

with very important jobs to do

in communities of color.

A friend writes poetry

about bombs exploding in his head,

then hikes to deep and to dark

and to where he burns

and buries all his poems.

And I write to him.

What happens after

you are done dancing alone?

And he invites me to lie with him.

Together, he says, we will count.

Count what?

Yes, exactly, count whatever.

Count victims, he says. Count children.

Count the wounded.

Count the wounded women who survive.

We should not do these things

separately, he says. We should not seek

the peace that comes before the fight.

We should witness together.

We should speak.