with skin of dirt & honey
who climbs & clamors & clings to the cruel hole 
where their parents’ bodies were just minutes ago
whose skin the color of the Rio Grande I’ve never seen but Jovane once assured me is just as
wet & wistful as the mud of the Yakima River
wow I say to no one in particular
womp womp says a white-haired 
white collar ordering Mexican food
while the waiter reaches for her pen a knife a
wailing in the distance
what assholes
we all whisper at our phones
when we finally come up with anything at all to say
when words are worthless
why is a barren question so taking
wickedness at its word seems hollow so
wallow with me for a minute as
weeping nightly my son mourns the end of each day
wary that the overwhelming world will be here when he wakes
what child is this
with skin of dirt & honey 

Dujie Tahat is our Poet in Residence for December. This poem originally appeared in Tahoma Literary Review, Issue 13.

Previously: &, and leaving my therapist’s office after a breakthrough.