Not Like This

I hoped to write a poem today 

about the haunting beauty of the dawn sky

stammered with pink clouds, 

and the northern flickers bathing in a puddle,

and the necessity of voting, 

and the reason for joy. 

I want to share something uplifting, like the root

vegetable sheet pan my lover prepared 

with goat feta and balsamic. 

We did not have to beg for bread or shelter. I do

not have to convince anyone

that I deserve to exist. 

But how can I convince you of something I only half

believe? Either way, the bombs continue, waking the

children half asleep. 

I think of them when I carry myself out into

the barely waking country, 

where the trees weep, 

and the sun again roars in its ancient wisdom;

not like this, 

not like this.