Sadie Doesn't

Sadie sits. Head turned. Upright in the window. And she doesn't know

of the 76 dead in Norway, or of Amy Winehouse's last song, or of the men

in theater garb carving new myths out of history

as they fight about a debt. Or of the Arctic melting or heat waves spreading or shit leaking into the ocean or the woman strangled in Michigan

          —just like that!—

                                                 (by whose hands?)

last Tuesday.

After 89 years:

Who would have imagined

this room to be my end?

Sadie doesn't know

that Syria is on fire, that eyes crackle to the pavement,

or that the heavens are sucking Somalia dry through pursed lips drawing in

so hard to make children shrivel, become bone, finally losing themselves to

a mass exodus from their collective skins and simply

disappearing

gone quiet

one by one.

Turned inside out as remains

mark the trails of mothers trudging headstrong-
exhausted clamoring for miles into

a vacuum

nightmares

of tiny bodies scorched,

abandoned,

dropped down

to the parched

earth.

No, she doesn't know.

Doesn't know as she stretches above

the birds rustling through the leaves below

the shrubs as she closes her eyes. Feline lost and safe

into a moment of rest once again.