Needles

Needles

I heard about the child who
went off the road in a pickup
and died in the water, and I
cried for two days afterward.

I read about the family who
were shot dead for being decent.
It hadn’t occurred to them that
their good intentions would offend
the darker nature of those who
would quiet them, and yet, it was done.
I lost my passion for dinner
that night.

I saw a tale unfold about
a baby who was struggling
to make it through, and didn’t,
which made me want to crawl
into bed with the curtains drawn.

Babies, children and innocents
should always make it through
I think, but I am not a god,
and I have no power over atrocity,
not even a tongue with which
to suck out the poison.

I left each sad chronicle behind me
knowing that I am
a little bit more in the know
about the blacker things in life
with undying anatomies
that feed on purity.

A virulent needle pricks my skin,
flooding my blood with a
noxious essence which
plants unsavoury themes in my mind,
but I seem to focus on the tiny hole
in my arm, rather than on the infection.

Then, I am surprised
that I have trouble
with the breathing.