“Let’s be the same wound if we must bleed. br Let’s fight side by side, even if the enemy br is ourselves: I am yours, you are mine.” br —Tommy Olofsson, Sweden br br I’m not interested in br who suffered the most. br I’m interested in br people getting over it. br br Once when my father was a boy br a stone hit him on the head. br Hair would never grow there. br Our fingers found the tender spot br and its riddle: the boy who has fallen br stands up. A bucket of pears br in his mother’s doorway welcomes him home. br The pears are not crying. br Later his friend who threw the stone br says he was aiming at a bird. br And my father starts growing wings. br br Each carries a tender spot: br something our lives forgot to give us. br A man builds a house and says, br “I am native now.” br A woman speaks to a tree in place br of her son. And olives come. br A child’s poem says, br “I don’t like wars, br they end up with monuments.” br He’s painting a bird with wings br wide enough to cover two roofs at once. br br Why are we so monumentally slow? br Soldiers stalk a pharmacy: br big guns, little pills. br If you tilt your head just slightly br it’s ridiculous. br br There’s a place in my brain br where hate won’t grow. br I touch its riddle: wind, and seeds. br Something pokes us as we sleep. br br It’s late but everything comes next.