For Ethan- by Sesshu

Living with Grief. One Father's Journey

for Ethan

– Sesshu

Ethan, (I speak to you who are not here, obviously);
you went out with kitchen lights on, rice cooking on the stove.
Sliding glass door to the backyard open, 9 or 10 PM,
how terrible those final hours: no equivalent is possible.
The weeping woman who cannot shield her children or her baby
from the soldiers machinegunning families in the ditch is not like
the fictive combatants coded in computer games on your console.
The thousands who were drugged and thrown out of helicopters
into the sea (their eyes torn out, some soldiers said) are not like
trash bags we tossed out after cleaning your room and your Jeep.
A room ankle deep in socks and clothes, Nerf gun, drumsticks and stuff.
The five hundred women and girls of Juarez and the thousands of women
and girls their bodies (‘showing signs of torture’) scattered across Mexico and
Central America, their terrors aren’t equivalent to the terrors of Fresno’s malls,

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