I hear this America in Her silence.
the streets are quiet. we look at one another
with fear in our faces and hiding
in our bodies. I want to hold the hand
of every little girl, of every individual
my being bumps into, of every person
too numb to vocalize and too shocked to cry.
grief hangs from every hard edge
of the space between yesterday
and the small hours of this morning,
with its platitudes and pleas and protest.
maybe tomorrow the rain will slow;
courage will come slinking in again,
pressed between fingers and clutched
to breasts, warming the fires bright and blue
in our bellies. maybe courage will lie
still until it sees its own shadow. maybe
courage already beats within
collective pulse, is bound to the expression
of grief, finds nurturing in sadness.
today we mourn. tomorrow we fight.
Emily Hillebrand is a junior at Emerson College, majoring in Writing, Literature and Publishing. She has been published by two of the college’s literary magazines, Golden Walkman Magazine, and will be published in an upcoming issue of The Oakland Arts Review. She is a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Persephone’s Daughters.