I stare past the sightless sheep.
The ones with enough naivete to
think repeating honeyed prayers
will somehow make all this okay.
I remain silent, because
I know better than to plead
with someone who’s stopped listening.
Dad squeezes my hand,
warming the bitter words;
“She’s with God now.”
It seems like a bad time to bring up
that I don’t believe in fairy tales any longer.
Outside, the sun is black and unforgiving
And I gaze into its blinding challenge
Seeing the truth for the first time.