if there ever was a time
to use the word hubris
now, this political circus moment, is it

in a gathering of
writers resisting
one person mentions pedro reyes
turning guns into musical instruments
and another says all great movements
begin around the kitchen table

and another talks about talking to his father
about violence against women
and violence against the earth and his father says
it’s the same thing
and another reads a poem titled
try to praise
the mutilated earth
and another says
this is our power,
it’s our time,
we are a formidable force
liz across from me sits and
introduces herself
and how it doesn’t take long to discover
this art-making food-growing commonality
and how she pulls her bright orange-red hat
over her head before she walks out
into the night shining with snowrain
how there was a kind of emptiness
a sort of longing,
and then, there we all are
appearing at the kitchen table
laughing with whoopie cushion fart jokes
through things that would otherwise make us cry
and when i say goodnight
gut muscles warmed from
getting through however we need to/can
(in this case, the heavy moments
that we allow to take up space and pause
and all the laughter
that has to follow)

i go back to my room
the three remaining
spelt almond cookies
liz from smudge
hands to me

i try to gesture the compressing
the layering
(how i am not at all my grandma
but how, in some ways,
we all carry each other/
each other’s traumas
and how we are like overlays
(my mom, my grandma and i)
set one by one on an overhead projector
coming together to form
a version of whole)
the whiteglow of snow
coming in through the windows
softly illuminating
this room