“The earth is not dying, it is being killed, and those who are killing it have names and addresses.” – Utah Phillips
So much death and pain today: slaughtered fowls,
reminders of genocide and oppression, celebration
of abundance denied to billions. Cousin, did you know
400,000 Ethiopians are suffering famine? I suppose
this doesn't make for good dinner conversation,
distracts from sports and shopping. And what can
we do about it, anyway? Uncle Bill didn't start the
war, Aunt Marie didn't award Prime Minister Ahmed
the Nobel Peace Prize, or ask him to charge the
battlefield—to "bury the enemy.” Pushing away
our chairs, stomachs stuffed to the point of pain,
we resolve to work off the weight. I wonder,
If children always starve, species go extinct, what
is the point of facing horror on Thanksgiving, between
the passing of this and that dish? And anyway,
there are not two sides to every story, not always
something to debate, to apologize or be thankful for,
to pray over. Sometimes, while we say Grace, a slum burns
down and a billionaire conjures luxury condos in the ashes.
Sometimes, after the kids have gone to sleep, family-men
bemoan their tax rates, overregulation; they are rich enough
to do something about it. And us? We dream that the guilty
are convicted, that in the morning, we find the jails full
of genociders begging their lawyers to set them free.
For once, justice won’t be blind, but bold, wide-eyed, free
to speak to her mind. We'll devour leftovers as she points out
mass graves, says to hell with your concern, look, look at
the workers, doubled over the earth, restoring it with love!
