These Days

These Days

Lynn Ungar

Anyone who tells you not to be afraid
should have their head examined.
Cities are burning, hillsides are burning,
a
nd the dumpster fire of our common life
is out of control. I wish I could tell you
when it was going to get better.
I wish I could promise that better
was anywhere down this road.
I miss dancing, bodies in something
between conversation and flight.
I miss singing, the way we trusted
the air that moved between us. I miss
the casual assumption that everything
would be all right in the morning.
These days I am trying to be buoyed
by the smallest things—
a ripe tomato, a smattering of rain.
These days I am trying to remember
that songs of lamentation
are still songs.