Blessings

No one ever held a knife to me
And meant it. That’s a blessing.
Across the park with umber skin,
A girl clutches her dark scalp
In the startling moments of her story.
I can see the softness of her hands
Gently returning the sunlight.
I stroke the bristles of my jaw
And stretch my wits toward history
Of young hands in stillness,
Of rest In a sacred place.
Someone asked me why
I so often look sad.
I hadn’t heard that in years.
I was always fond of saying,
My eyes are sad, because
They see too much.
I didn’t know a damn thing.