The Scream by Susan Demiglio
Nothing is small, nothing is great. Inside us are worlds.
What is small divides itself into what is great, the great into the small. Edvard Munch
It seems if I went screaming, out
into the street about mankind’s infidelities,
how it betrays itself over and again,
someone would understand
and would stand shocked—
stock-still—and endorse my scream,
add to my voice their own,
to my horror their own,
and we should amass passersby,
so many that the television cameras could not resist
Children die, always an injustice,
but they are dying today
in mega pixels, in daylight
to my night, and in the dark.
Bombs explode the faces off of homes;
their jaws dropping on old people,
on families, on children.
Furniture leans out of rooms
toward rubbled streets.
What if I screamed
to wake up the neighbors, then the world. Inside us are worlds
and I am screaming Munch’s scream, a tortured orange
sunset that circles in
a dented silence,
it is anger and heart break
It is not of no consequence.
Unsaid protests, unstepped marches,
unformed legions all muttering their
unjoined passions are not ending the screaming
I cannot hear from the other side of the world.