She called us survivors,
the word coming from her
fervent tongue, our hearts
not quite knowing how to cope with
the idea of ever feeling worthy again.
We have each other’s stories
stuck in our teeth,
our sorrows, like smoke,
deep in the threads of our clothes.
Our eagerness inviting
hope beneath clinical lighting,
each one of us a bandaged wound yearning
to become something different.
We take it all in.
We are broken but
hardly reduced
to ashes, our sore throats
eager to swallow
a language we don’t yet
know how to speak.
We all watch these fires burn.
We all watch our tears fail to put them out.
We will need so much more than saltwater
and so much less than words
to keep this place from burning up.
James Roach (they/he) is a queer, trans, sober poet most creative between the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? He currently lives in St. Louis.
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