A pragmatic lullaby for myself By Molly Zhu

A pragmatic lullaby for myself

Some can allow for the world
to croon a lullaby about
the salve of peace.
But this is a promise
we can’t all believe in.

When there is no soft gurney to rest your limbs,
When there is no bitter juice to stop the
invading cancer,
you’ll understand:
you are not iron,
you are not steel,
what you thought was virtue and
what you knew was vice
are only soft dough, being
rolled by the wrong hands.

Has anyone ever felt
this internecine stew of
broiled fury and
guttural rage and
of wrath stoked and
of families engulfed?

I know the answer is, yes.
So why am I still afraid?
I want to believe in Good over Evil,
but I know now,
the difference is nothing,
but a sleight of hand.

My ancestors could never have guessed
in a million cycles of the sun,
that I would one day be,
an American.

And that is the beauty of this country.

And I want to believe in its beauty again.
And I want to believe in its beauty again.

By Molly Zhu


Molly is a new poet and writer. For her desk job, she is a corporate attorney in NYC. In her free time, she enjoys eating and thinking about words.

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