God made dirt, dirt don’t hurt—
the blind blessing we recite
over spilt food on a dirty floor
before placing it back in our mouths,
swallowing with the confidence
that because God made it
we cannot die.
But did God not create people,
people who hurt us every day—
break our hearts,
steal our loved ones,
abuse us with manipulative words
to satisfy their selfish needs,
shoot us, stab us, kill us, rape us?
Shall I eat this peanut retrieved
from a floor on which a murderer tread
dragging a family of corpses behind him?
God made him, right?
He cannot hurt me…
I’d love some feedback on this poem. I feel it’s missing something, but I’m not quite sure what it needs.