I am torn—
seems a more apt
wholeness asks of me
to see and to hold the whole—
the whole—every part and particle.
Oh, would that I could empty
as some advise or simply not attach.
I cannot—at least, not yet—maybe never.
For simplicity’s sake but also to remind myself
how quickly I distance, turn away from unbearable pain,
let me reference Auschwitz, not as some icon
of past atrocities, history’s deadening instruction,
but as a living, active word, that tells my story
and I’ll wager yours, as well—
but that’s to you to figure out.
Or I could say, entrenched,
and call up another part of myself
with eight million particles,
more or less, snuffed out.
But lest you think
I favor darkness
let me call up your shining eyes
and see how they, too, are a part of me.
The words I use are legion
and legions more await.
How else to tell the tale—
the story of the whole?
Each word mine, to mine
and find myself within
and never let go
and grow, then,
binding each to each
as one might have bound
a sheath of wheat
in the days