January Thaw

1. “I’m not mad at you.”
   ~what Renee Good said to the ICE agent before he shot her in the head
   
   The desert clay can’t absorb
   all the snowmelt, miring
   walkers in morning mud
   
   paradoxically, it both holds tight
   and shoves sideways, slippery
   beneath the soles. It’s quiet
   
   on the trail except for the squelch
   of each measured step
   and the cacophony in my head:
   
   “how could’s” and “what if’s”
   blaring into a sun-scratched sky.
   The dog romps through the sage
   
   chasing something I never see
   while I’m chasing a thing
   I wish I could unsee, words
   
   I wish I could unhear. Caught
   between forgiveness and a corpse,
   a fury I don’t know how to contain
   
   billows out at so many people, and greed
   and disparity, and the rarity
   of someone facing imminent threat
   
   who can say “I’m not mad at you.”
   A very small part of me wants
   to stay calm like that, but some of me
   
   is mad at her too. It’s unfair
   to be angry at the dead
   for a infection not in their control.
   
   I know this, yet the rage simmers
   magma pressing against
   a crust of earth, such a thin skin
   
   holding it back from steaming into sky.

2. “Fucking Bitch!”
   ~what the ICE agent said after shooting Renee Good in the head

In the wilds behind the college
where there’s more sand than clay
the trails stay crisp between ice and thaw.

No mud, no scudding prints, slipshod
to warn the wary traveler. Just the
gritty repetitive sound of foot on ground-down stone.

The heartbeat of movement
of life and living which I believed
was a right.

The easy path offers no resistance
other than altitude, as we climb steadily
away from the city and its unmarked vehicles.

What level of animosity,
does it take to cuss out a woman
you just shot? To hate her,

even as she bleeds out?
It leaves me desolate and lost
borne on a tide of sorrow

for a country I once knew and loved,
thought of as an ally, now
a stranger, despite our many years together.

And my unspent anger knows
no bounds. This is how we become
a society of violence

one person at a time.

Dear Reader:

I’m grateful for you, the few
who still read poetry. Are we even
allowed to read poetry
in America anymore?
I’m proud of your act of resistance
Not loud, but persistent, finding
the words to express more than
clenched fists, acid on the tongue—
forcing celebration into the
small moments of each day.

Your hands ruffling the dogs silken
ears. Your mouth swallowing
that first harsh sip of morning
coffee. Remember the scent
of baking bread? The way
the still-warm loaf
folds beneath the knife
when you can’t bear to let
it cool before tasting?
These moments matter too—
as the prison camps and detention
centers fill. As another child
is zip-tied. Another Minnesotan shot
to death. As we fight ourselves:
“the enemy within.” It’s not
who the politicians name, criminals,
immigrants, not who I want to blame:
ICE and the national guard flooding
our streets. Not $50,000 spent hanging banners
of our presidents face.
The real enemy within, is just that:
within.

So soften your eyes. Relax
your jaw. I see you gritting your teeth—
let your shoulders loosen
toward the ground. This is your time
to wallow in words. To take a breath
unfouled by violence. To let in the sounds
of birdsong. Yes I said it. Listen
to the damn birdsong. It’s worth
a moment of pause, a moment
to unclench your claws, to soothe
the enemy within away
from another day of despair.
We can fight, and we should

but in between, we need to
remind ourselves— there go the birds again,
and the kitchen smells like roasting tomatoes
as we boil down the last of the garden—
where was, I? Oh, yeah— remind ourselves
what we’re fighting for.
Each blank page, awaiting the pen
each empty stage readying for protest
This moment of reading and being read
Listening to what was meant, really hearing
what was said. A rainstorm seen
from a cozy chair. After, the musk of sage,
scenting the air. and of course, most importantly,
this. The words we continue to share.

Thanksgiving 2025

“President Trump’s executive order freezing most U.S. foreign aid for 90 days has thrown into turmoil programs that fight starvation and deadly diseases…” NY Times 2025

400,000 of the dead are children
I say this with a straight face
without tears streaking my cheeks, without
even a catch in my throat, knowing

my children are safe. One is sleeping in,
home for thanksgiving where he can hug
on the dog, and stay out late
for Taco Bell runs. The other will spend
the holiday gorging with friends
in San Diego. They will not starve

this year, or ever. It’s so easy
to shake my head in disgust at the
global news and move on to preparing
an elaborate meal for twelve,
with a last run to the grocery store
where I can pick up extra potatoes,
apples and anything else
my heart desires.

I never understood
vandalism. Stealing, sure:
the thief ends up with some
new loot. But destruction just
for its own sake, as a power
play or a crying out, breaking
glass only to swagger over the shards—
this I still don’t understand.

600,000 deaths in ten months
and this without a war
unless we count the enemy within
the one running things,
ruining things, smashing
every policy in sight.
“Public man-made death”
it’s called, these mandates to destroy,
the defunding of U.S.A.I.D.

I say it to my husband, who is partially deaf
to see if it sounds more real out loud:
“600,000 deaths in ten months” I tell him.
“What was that?” He asks.
“Nothing,” I say.-

I can hear my youngest crashing
around upstairs now, unafraid
of taking up space, of being heard.
I want that desperately for all children,
that unflinching stare, the easy confidence.
But the dead can never recover.
They can only be mourned
and we’re not
even doing that.

---

Note: Terri is having a book launch party for her latest published book of poems on Saturday, (Feb 7th), from 3-5 pm, at 1775 Chaparral Dr., Carson City, Nevada.