What Drove Us Apart

To Theresa May

Not so long ago you said, Theresa,

that it was the voices of evil and hate

which drove us apart – but no offence

we may have a different answer to that,

for the roots of this stalemate

go bone-deeper than you can sense.

It's the written plea of the homeless

whose utter misery is being silenced –

even their voice was taken away, yes.

It's the omniabsence of the wheelchaired,

for their home is an island-horst

outside of which each-and-every road

is fraught with bureaucratic caltrops.

It's the little one out-of-the-blue-asking

her mom why her dad won't be home

and her, clenching to the kitchen sink,

and her head bowed in shame,

in-vain-dispelling the visions of flames,

as she can't explain a four-year-old why

her daddy died trying to save passers-by.

It's the gut-punching pictures in the papers

of people who could have been us,

praying a God who could have been ours,

who wince at the hand raised in succour

– it being so similar to that which cursed them

which, you know, could well have been ours –

trying to regain some dignity in the slums.

It's the 'apart' that in part drives us,

the further we are the better,

for the taking-parter is a meddler:

one's better off apart on the bus.

It's those who look at death in the eye

for a scrap of information, a picture

to show the world what it chose to disregard.

It's those who look at death in the eye

to mend, heal, soothe the injured,

to show the world what to choose to guard,

those who chose which world for which to die.

It's those who buckle up against insults

the coons, tramps, dems, tards and sluts,

It's those who curl up because they stood up.

It's those who step down for having stood up.

It's those who are spurned for another,

limelighting the concept of 'brother'.

It's all these bent-backs whose voice

was choked in the clangorous quotidian

because they were left with no choice,

they needed a loud-speaker to devoice,

to paint, to word, to picture oblivion.

Even then, sometimes, it's all in vain.

It's the little hurts which slip unnoticed,

the not-so-invisible indigence,

the eyes averting a raised fist,

the self-exonerated carelessness.

It's the vindicated right to be left alone.

So we choose to take cover behind our phone,

we step away, blame someone else,

we come home to check our pulse,

our children, our sundries, our affairs.

Until death strikes us unawares.

Of course, Theresa, we don't blame

you alone, for we share in this shame.

We were already worlds apart

when tragedies hit us so hard:

that which unites fails to bond

if nobody wants to go beyond

the barricades of their heart.

When I remembered the war in Bosnia

watching the ashen-haggard faces of Syria,

it's Richter's Sarajevo's voice I heard

which dug up the pictures, the words,

the agony watching the telly, the insomnias

when I was thirteen and yes, Prime Minister,

even twenty-five years later

I still cry when I think of Sarajevo,

because it's just a new shame starting de novo.

What drove us apart is ourselves,

Theresa May. We forget what makes,

who makes our lives, and we delve,

hurtle headlong without brakes.

Sure, we've grown used to unfair

– blood-and-tears the new wear-and-tear –

sure our life isn't so bad after all,

but we forget how much better it can be –

life isn't just so-be-it shawl-and-pall

or work-hard-play-hard philosophy,

it's also caring for people

and by people I mean any,

people-in-general any,

not just family

nor the polls

or albocracy

because unless we start

showing our real heart

unless we stop looking

and start scrutinizing

unless we stave off ignorance

and start world-educating

unless we dispel the rants

and start accepting

unless we sit down

and start listening,

yes, Theresa, we will be driven

further apart.