Anna Gibbs ‘19
I have had enough of the things that lack
reparability. My parents
used to clean the bloody piece
of my knee and jigsaw it back
together after nasty bike falls.
When I tripped over roots or feet.
In their hands, life was Velcro.
It could be fixed. I have had
enough of vans off cliffs, bullets
out of a gun that can’t be inhaled
back in, regardless of intention.
The boy’s knife slips and sidles into his brother,
and I have had enough of that. Too
much broken. I have not had enough
of the rain. Give me precipitation.
My feet are dirty, and my hair.
My hands are not clean, no
rain these days, nothing to touch my hands but my hands.
I have had enough of watching people break.
My shoulders hurt. I have had enough
of their Picasso faces and melting
eyes and origami stomachs.
Give me back my fear
of bloody knees and the slow
sirens for a tragedy that you’d never see.
We didn’t always know:
The boy on the bike passes by my spot
on the grass four times. Somewhere close,
a girl younger than this holds her bloody knees
alone. Where are her people? Have we had
enough? Her parents shackled for no crime, good,
right. And we all
have had enough. And we all nod