Is it unseemly
To craft poetry
From tragedy?

A spray of fresh new thought springs forth, unexpectedly.
As if opening a drawer one thought for so long empty and finding
A live heart
Raw and red
Set against the flowered paper lining

Waiting to be held, caressed
Its pulse beating against your palms

And even though you know in your own chambers
The chambers of the body and the soul
Chambers that pump with blood and wisdom,
History

That this is awful

More fearful than any incident captioned in the newspapers
More horrific than natural disasters
Cresting and crashing within television’s surreal window to the world

Still
It is yours
Which is why it is awful

But it is also why
You must hold it in the warmth of cupped hands

Until the drum does pound no more
Until
There is nothing

Left to say
Both of you
Must speak

Your only piece.