BLACK AND WHITE

BLACK AND WHITE

The rabbit lawn on the north side,
between the railroad tracks and highway,
is deserted but for these five blackbirds
and a limp fence of yellow tape.
The boy in jeans lay
spread-eagled on the asphalt, unblinking
when the sun first stepped between the bright clouds.

I began to write that I still have time to do,
to do something, to relearn what I can do
without his blood on my hands
or his last words on my tongue.

But I can’t. I’d be lying.
Really, there is no more time
in this world, or the next.
I can only do this, tell you
to count those birds again,
give you room
to sit down beside me and tremble
with the silent mothers
for whom the phone has not yet rung,
to ball your fists
with the silent fathers
on whose door the knocks
have not yet fallen.

We don’t have much time,
but we have enough
to look at those black feathers
against that white sky,
to look at black and white,
and wonder how
you and I could possibly
think the responsibility
is anyone’s but our own?