Intervention, a poem by David Garyan

Intervention

I’m tired of your moments of silence,

especially before baseball games;

they’re sickening to watch.

You’ve had enough hush, America.

Why don’t you have more

shootings with no-hitters?

How long should we let you continue?

You keep saying it, but stillness isn’t respect. It seems the greater the quiet, the harder peace is to find. The more bullets keep speaking, the less that issue is raised. We've become good at dodging it— in fact, what we're doing is merely a whole lot of ducking. I have a question: Should we wait

until there's nothing to do but

stay silent the whole day?

I don’t want to reach that point.

I can't observe 24 hours of solitude—

just so all the dead can be properly honored.

Your tragic expressions on the news

no longer mean anything to me.

You’re like a heroin junkie: "I can quit shooting up any time

but won't go to rehab."

How long must we endure like this? To see you die in that quiet without peace.

To sit in this court where no victim is guilty, but none have the voice to pronounce it. The law is not on the side of the dead, but it claims to protect the ones who'd rather not die. "We need more guns, not less."

America, if I was your parent,

my knees would go weak— my arms would falter holding your dead body.

And so excuse me, but I’ve chosen to love you—

and to disown you as well. Yet all this can change.

If you could just see it yourself.

Until then, you're no longer welcome here.

So sleep on the street, if you must.

I can't supply your guns any longer.

I don’t care how bad your withdrawals get.

You can shoot rubber bullets

if it’ll make you feel better.

I won’t pay attention to any pleas that you make.

And this I will do until you put down your track-marked arms.

There's help out there. All those who love you believes this. But what does that matter if you don't believe it yourself?

I’m always here, America,

and maybe you've also been there for me,

but your suffering

doesn’t affect me right now.

Die if you must,

but don’t come running for aid. I know how, in fact, it's not what you lack— help has just one synonym left for you: craving. There's no more longing, desire, or wish left in your need. Your language has been reduced to a haywire biology— a necessity you didn't need before, but with time it has turned into one.

And why should I care about that?

You’re no longer a son;

you’re no longer a daughter.

I refuse to treat you that way.

To me, you’re just like all the other addicts

I pass every day going to work.

It pains me to see them, but it hurts more to know I can't help.

Get out of my house, America;

I can disown you

and still accept you carry my genes.

I’m only doing what all good

parents should do.

If you want to live here,

you’ll have to grow up. If you want to grow up, you'll have to learn how to live.

You’re sick.

And you won’t get better

until you accept this.

America, don’t call me “father”

and don’t call me “mother.”

Any news of your suffering

only upsets my own mood— not how I feel about you. Any news of your plight no longer torments me—

it just sounds too hard to believe.

America, despite what I've said, I do think I’m lying. It is you who is right and me that is wrong.

You know all too well how I still want to raise you. But where's my chance? It all seems so lost.

It’s hard to see you die

on the streets of El Paso and Dayton,

but why do I keep failing to save you?

Why do you think I'm the danger?

Why do you keep raising your arms and getting defensive?

August 2019