I Don’t Know How to Convince You to Care About Others

Because at some point we were all children
running toward whoever cried, asking what’s
wrong. Pretending to put Band-Aids on baby
dolls and check the temperatures of our teddy
bears. We were sad when something fell apart
and tried to make it better than before. When
we were scared, we looked for the helpers and
wanted to be one. We believed a kiss could cure
scraped knees. Just the other day, my daughter
burst into tears because we found a dead bug on
the windowsill. I wanted to say it was fine, not to
cry, but then I stopped myself. Because maybe
this is how it starts to end. And instead of being
one more person telling her it doesn’t matter, I
can be the one who makes it okay to care more.

*

Call for Submissions

The theme is rage and the deadline is
yesterday. It is too late now for all that.
Today you must get up, plant your feet
on the ground as you would a garden:
tenderly, with hope. Tilt water toward
your lips and open wide. What spills
is only an overflow of want and need
and this is a good sign, I promise.
Turn your face to the sky and submit
to the call for life – in spite of everything
undeterred and blinding.
The sun, each day,
is an uprising.

*

And Now, for My Next Trick

I will not scream when screamed at, or into the void

When everyone says we are in the handbasket, I will fill the laundry basket
with tiny socks and try not to lose one, or my mind

Everything may be burning but I will make dinner that doesn’t
for children who refuse to eat it anyway

I will sing them to sleep even though
I can’t carry a tune, or the weight of the world

When I worry, I will clench my teeth in the night without
clenching my fists when I wake

I will let go of fear and cling to hope,
put down my guilt and hold my children

For today, I will remember it is enough to be there for them
and, in spite of everything, to be here at all.

*

Not Everything Has to be a Poem

A plum could just be a plum. A window, glass –
not something to be opened to the breeze or
an opportunity seized. What you see is what you
get: the rocks in my pocket from my child are
just bits of dirty stone. While we’re at it, let me
tell her that dandelions have nothing to do with
a wish and pennies aren’t luck. She could grow
up calling the sunset red and orange instead of
a sky on fire and hearing birdsong as background
noise. None of it has to mean anything more.
But it could, right? We could take this life
and make it art.

*

Rachel Beachy lives in Kentucky with her husband and children. Her debut collection Tiny Universe will be published by Kelsay Books. Her poetry has also appeared in Ephemera, Freshwater, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Sky Island Journal, wildscape. literary journal, and others. She was shortlisted for the Central Avenue Poetry Prize 2026.