This one’s for all the girls who fell in love with their fathers
because they abandoned them at childhood, so now these girls
wear those absences better than any shirt they’ve ever owned.
This one’s for the first person who was called to the scene
in the Sandy Hook shootings,
the boys who died of AIDS at seventeen after turning
into ghosts of their former selves.
And this one’s for the woman who was raped in New Delhi
and died of severe internal injuries
after being tossed into the street.
This one’s for the child who attempted suicide at age seven
because he learned from his parents that love
was giving each other black eyes,
for the Hurricane Katrina victims who lost their homes
but not their will to survive.
This one’s for my father, who gets the blues twice a month
and is sad on birthdays and holidays
but won’t tell us why.
And this one’s for the firefighters who have to go back
into all those burning buildings every day
and who hide under the covers at night
from the flames that still crackle in their heads,
for Thom Yorke, who’s struggled with depression all his life.
This one’s even for the boy that touched me
without my permission and thought that it was okay.
This one’s for the Iraq War veterans who jump
at the sound of a door opening,
who make their daughters ask “Why is daddy so scared all the time?”
This is for Tyler Clementi, who jumped to his death
from the George Washington Bridge
after being videotaped loving another man.
And this one’s for my uncle, who had a tumor on his brain
and who will never be here again.
This one’s for the businessmen who drown their sorrows in drinks
every day after work,
the construction workers who need to build up their own souls
even more than raising a ladder.
This one’s for all the little boys and girls who were abused
by their priests after being told their bodies were holy objects,
for the women who walk with their heads down every day
on the street because they’re afraid
of what a man could do to them.
This one’s for my grandmother,
who lives without my grandfather
every day with the kind of courage I only dream of emulating.
And this one’s for every 9/11 victim,
every son without a father,
every sister without a brother,
every mother without a daughter.
This one’s for Emily Dickinson, who died before her time.
And this one’s for me and you,
who start out every morning with hope in our mouths
only to find it a bitter taste
by the end of the day.