I wonder what was sitting
on his kitchen table, left behind
as he thought, I’ll put it away later:
the dirty cup in the sink, the pair
of socks on the bedroom floor,
the email half-written
on the computer—
and someone would have to sort
through it all, their heart shredded
with loss; his mother, perhaps,
holding a sweater that still faintly
smells of him, emptying rooms
that still echo his voice. Her grief
is not hers alone. The world lights
candles, creates signs, says his name
everywhere: He belongs to the whole
planet now, united in anger
and grief
and yet…
I still think about what he left behind,
the cup, the socks, the email messages,
small imprints of a life interrupted.
The people who killed him don’t care.
His life has been deemed subversive:
they say we are all terrorists now.