Not One Peaceful Morning

Has anyone else noticed

not one morning has come gently,

not one sunrise without sirens in the news,

not one cup of coffee poured in stillness

before the world begins to shake again.

*

We used to know

the sound of ordinary days,

the soft, forgettable hours,

the ones you only miss

once they are gone.

*

But since he took office

not one day.

Not one single, merciful day of peace.

*

The headlines breathe like open wounds.

We wake already tired,

already bracing,

already reaching for something solid

in a room that won’t stop turning.

*

Our children are learning

to read the worry on our faces.

Our elders sit before the television

and shake their heads slowly

like they have seen this before

and prayed they never would again.

*

There is grief in this,

a deep, collective grief

for the calm we once took for granted,

for the normalcy we did not know

we were living inside of

until the door slammed shut.

*

Has anyone else noticed?

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I see it in the eyes of strangers.

I hear it in the sighs between sentences.

I feel it in the way we hold our breath

every time a notification lights our screens.

*

We are a people waiting.

Waiting for one day,

just one,

where nothing burns,

nothing breaks,

no one has to march

just to be seen as human.

*

Not one day.

*

And still

we rise.

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Because the alternative is surrender,

and surrender was never in our bones.

*

We carry the burden of these restless years

not because we are unbreakable,

but because we refuse

to stop believing

in what peace could feel like

if only they would let it come.