No One Wants to Know
It hit me today that they don’t really know who I am.
I certainly don’t know them, don’t need to beyond
the here & there hour, the rushed or well-thought paper,
the after school briefing, quick question, occasional cry.
When the needy one, full of storm-fear never grown out of
& compulsion—making it all seem like destruction—asked,
again, for the hug that was certainly a stand in for other arms:
I quaked and yielded. She did not want to know me,
but to know that someone would care enough to say:
I accept your fear with the same unreason that brings it.
No one wants to know what the other one is thinking,
just that for a minute’s time a faithful space is shared,
or hope is defined by a bit of community that will be
allowed to disappear, without a need for shedding tears.
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