“Don’t tell me.”

This was the line my little daughter used to say
with some regularity.

Headstrong then,
as she so brilliantly remains
four decades later.

Don’t tell me.

Some of us are meant to carry.
Some to dispense.
Others cannot help but bear witness.

I can no more look away
from what is happening,
close my eyes to suffering,

than I can turn away from sunrise
exploding over the ocean cliffs.

Vision such as this
is not optional.

See something beautiful:

eyes open,
heart open,
hands open.

See something terrible:

Most will turn away,
change the subject,
close the curtain,
mute the cry.

I cannot.
I remain open.

My sister used to say
our mother should have been called Cleopatra,

Queen of de Nile.

Sometimes I think
an entire civilization
has inherited the crown.

Don’t tell me.

As though not knowing
will spare us.

As though looking away
changes anything.

This will cost us,
in the end.