They were the ones who gave me the quick and dirty 

    education about Appalachia, coal and absentee 

landlords. They were the ones who stood with me in the 

  mountains blasted to rubble. (no metaphors here.) 

 They were the ones who sat with around crowded 

      cafeteria tables in Frankfort. They were the ones 

who traded dirty jokes about Kentucky's invented tax 

      pyramid. (Geeks rule!) They were the ones who 

 taught me to lobby and to listen. We choose each other.

This was the year 

that faces disappeared, omitting lips, noses, chins, mouths.

   A part can never encompass a whole. This was the year 

when we lost our beloved spaces, and the virus took many 

   among us. This was the year that my spine straightened 

into a metal post, completely rigid. This was the year that 

  a young woman was shot dead in her apartment and, 

legally, her death was held of no count. This was the year 

    that a police officer, sworn to serve and protect, knelt 

on a man's neck for eight minutes. This was the year that 

    we couldn't brunch, but we gathered in the streets to 

cry for these two, and many others. This was the year I 

      read Baldwin, Levi, Morrison, Weisel and their 

voices pierced me as never before. This was the year.