I dare you to make a pie that's not
filled with chemically burned hands.
I dare you to light a burner that's not
fueled by a genocide.
I dare you to grill a steak that's not
branded and slaughtered in industrial agony.
I dare you to open a cupboard, a closet, and not
find a dead whale beached, a child's body afloat.
What is a good person to do?
Heroes have sat for years on pillars,
scourged themselves back, climbed mountains on raw knees.
Heroes have been burned alive,
or snuffed out by overworked open hearts.
Let the news snack at your table
muddy your floor, spill your garbage.
Wallow in the filthy swamp of sweatshop frocks
seeping from your closet. Swallow sand. See.
My tongue probes the aching tooth of guilt
the sweet pain of lingering faith I deserve this—
I earned this kitchen of nails, this hair shirt of an apron.
I mind my own business and clean, clean, clean...
What else can a good person do?