I have the right
to grieve—
with worn eyes,
dangling threads,
the loss of knowing
what is right and wrong,
what is good and evil,
if ever these were meant
to be divided into
clear categories,
as if the plant is not both
stem and leaf,
as if I am not just blood and tissue.
As if I am not just rubbing my eyes and nose,
not just lost in monuments
since nothing makes sense anymore.
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