The Real Poem Begins at the End

I don’t even know what to say anymore about where we are in this country. The passing of this abominable bill turns my stomach. 
I’ll never understand the heart of anyone who thinks any of this is okay. It’s not okay to build concentration camps on US soil; laugh in front of cages designed to house human beings, including children; kidnap people off the street who actually pay more in taxes collectively than any billionaire alive. 

They aren’t criminals. They aren’t siphoning off resources. 
If you still think that’s true, I beg you to listen to something other than Fox news, and educate yourself about human history because we are moments from full on fascism, if we haven’t crossed the line already. With the passing of this bill, I’m afraid we have. ICE will now become the largest law enforcement agency in the US. The only thing scarier than that? The laws they’re enforcing are not laws, but orders from a dictator. 

I want to go on and on about the threats to so many marginalized groups, including my LGBTQ+ community, but I have a hard time writing eloquently about this stuff. Just trying to write the above paragraph was like trying to arrange vomit so it looks less gross splattered all over the floor. 

In the spirit of staying in my lane, here’s a poem about the beginnings in endings. If you don’t hear hope lacing the words together, read it again— I promise you it's in there. It’s made of the stuff. 

If this is an ending, we start the most beautiful poem we can imagine from here. From this broken place where it feels like all is lost. It’s not. 

I wrote it for anyone actively caring about and helping others— anyone who believes that if Jesus were still alive, he’d be protesting the inhumanity and cruelty of this shameful so-called government, and weeping over the treatment of fellow human beings. 

If you’re wondering— WWJD on the 4th this year? There’s a protest near you tomorrow. Go. You'll see a lot of him there. 
 

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My favorite poems begin at the end. 
With a switchblade start that goes in past the handle. 
Leaves a steel-tipped hope embedded in your bones 
like a volunteer seed waiting for rain.

My favorite poets start writing  
on hands and knees in the soil of slaughter.  
The place desire comes alive 
even as it all comes undone. 

The end is anguish. 
Necessary. 
Holy.
The place you find your real god— 
in the birthing room of every creation
pushed forth under the duress of a scream.  

When was the last time you breathed 
as deep as you did when you lost the 
lover — 
yourself — 
the light in your soul? 

It sure as fuck wasn’t at the beginning. 
There are no gasps in the beginning. 
Poems about beginnings are already dropping 
their petals in the autumn of your throat.

But a poem that starts with an ending? 
You taste rebellion in the words. 
You stop thinking you know how it’s all going to end.
Grief shoves a bridle into the foaming mouth 
of your despair, and that’s when it all comes alive.
 
Why not start the poem there.