I've been thinking about this poem all week.
I think what strikes me about it is how it speaks to the struggle to talk about atrocity with any integrity, and how every form we reach for to do such work--"non"-fiction, "fiction", poetry that reports--is tainted by the audacity of trying to put transgression to words at all.
We're such a strange, fragile species.
*Just* sentient enough to understand how much hurt exists in our world.
Not wise or powerful enough to do enough about it.