(for Jennifer Casolo)
Who will be our voice
and speak to our killers' consciences,
remind them that someone,
someone/all is watching?
Who will be our hands
to touch the hands of our torturers,
naming their work the cruelty it is,
deeming it more hurt than our own?
Who will ask our interrogators
the questions that turn their hearts,
hearing their confessions,
granting them forgiveness?
Who will cleanse with pain-hardened truths
the eyes and ears of blind and deaf,
the nameless who pay our assassins' wages,
buy the bullets that pierce our bodies?
Who will nourish initial doubts and whispered thoughts
into growing convictions and stubborn resistance,
broadcast the seeds of critical mass
till stilled hearts rise and cry as one?
Who will hail us from our graves
to hear our cries transfigured
into choruses of justice, symphonies of grace
when we come, bright and sure as morning suns?