From The Handbook Of Universal Responsibility

It doesn’t add up.  You’re
still sane.  The night that owns us
commands the day
Holds it back.  You sleep,
with arms askew.  Delicate throat
where the pulse can be taken
And still you don’t cry out
Would rather tongues were wrenched
from telling mouths…
than speak out.  Yet Today, Hari dies
Tomorrow, Geeta rises
from the ground where she’s raped
The bullet that pierces
Hari’s heart
hurries through yours
You swallow, or yes, you spit,
you clear your throat.  Hands that hold
Geeta down
are not held back by yours
Cold fingers/ Clean nails.  Next week Geeta dies
and again Geeta and Hari Hari Hari
There are so many tomorrows, and ever again
todays.  It adds up…
One of them is surely yours
As all of them are

(A previous version of this poem appeared in Poems Nierdengasse)