Turning: a climate grief poem

It's grief,
alright.
the same burning arrow
through the heart's gills
the same stone weight
of emptiness   — loss
	of words
	of what to do
	of a place
 
     that doesn't ache

Broken Harmony by Ildiko Nova

the way the living room,
the bedroom and the kitchen
ache

we are accomplices
to our own undoing
everytime we flip
	a switch
 		we flinch
each cup of tea
	each text

a word burning in the air

	will we ever heal again?

our fly-covered hopes,
the dreams 
we stole from others, our dreams —

are kindling for the Great Disaster

we scratch at chimneys
the smoke that bleeds 
from them, our blood.

	words can't heal this
	they never could.

but if we turn, as one —
	a murmuration 
	or a school of herring

We might staunch the wound
And quench the burning 

the things that
creature bodies know
(we need each other)

the things that words,
 	together, know,

they cannot heal us
but they can turn us —

one mind in many bodies,
a wise mindlessness
or mindful bodyness

toward the cool 
places
where undying 
grace is.