Small Joys

Afternoon summer rain.

The first breath after good sex, that release after the release.

A hummingbird returning from half the world away,

and you swear it knows your hand.

Your nephew runs to you—he says

daddy—meaning only love.

The cat stays on the porch

then leaps into your lap.

Bombs fall.

Children starve.

I press these truths into these joys,

mixing the antidote into the poison.

These are the reasons

we fight for peace.

I pet the cat.