I have too many funerals to plan.
That’s what the rabbi said when asked
how he handles the mourning
and mornings that come after
the worst has happened. I need a break
the physician begs, no more stinking news.
I have to practice healing all over again.
The poet chews up the words she knows
for hate and they rub raw like hand-me-down
rags, unbought, stamped like prison garb.
The child asks after the star. What night
holds the star on that building?
The parents try to say all nights, all stars,
we are all one under all of them.
Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet who grew up in a community similar to Squirrel Hill. She regularly attends a church in a denomination whose buildings have come under violent attack for its religious liberalism and strong social justice stands.
