who am i, to set this down?

late at the bar he opened his own mouth and showed me
barbs of hatred, plucked from the minds of others,
sharpened by his own hand
edged with something viscous and oozing,
turned inward, inward:

i was born, and the keys of privilege were put into my hands, and for that sin there is no redemption.

and why should being born a certain way need redemption? i hope i said it kindly, but i have little patience for people who think i want their guilt.

i kept the barbs in my pocket, though,
because they were nonetheless a gift,
spinning in the dark against my fingertips like a top as if they could inoculate me against that particular horror.

it's quiet tonight.
there are no drone strikes in my neighborhood.

the man on the screen points at each name on the pages of family trees he holds up to the webcam, each one dead under the rubble.
of all people, shouldn't we, as Jews, as queers, know how it feels to wake up with mouths full of dust?
i can feel their many hands through the veil, small, large,
pronounce well or poorly their names in my head.
i begrudge no one their hatred but the barbs in my pocket remind me not to be a hypocrite.
my friend's guilt changes no laws, stops no bullets, saves no children.
my guilt opens no eyes, unmakes no rockets, fills no bellies.

i'm sorry you're in danger, they said, of all places, in the comments under a youtube video. and then, without venom, it is simply true that the world reaps what your country sows. if you think you can do nothing, we can do even less. but hope is not knowing that you can win.