Hades does not care about the little yellow kitchen in Puerto Rico.

He wastes no time dedicating a thought to the washed away

dreams of a grandma whose life has been dedicated to pruning

her hands and scraping her knees for her children 

and her children’s children and god hoping their children too.

Hades does not care that her first husband built this home brick by brick

In hopes that it would last them seven lives. He doesn’t care that the yellow

kitchen saw bruises and scrapes from the touch of the man she swore she’d 

love forever. In the end it only lasted them one life

and Hades watched as the winds and rain of a single hurricane took 

out the aged yellow kitchen and the raw knuckled memories too. 

 

Hades does not care about the bloodied corner in Detroit.

 

Hades sighs when the boy’s back breaks against the force 

of a baton. Hades shrugs at the blood leaking from his forehead

and stands next to a woman staring at the limp and broken body,

of a boy who stole a carton of cigarettes. Hades only watches on 

with the boy’s daughter as he decays in front of the dollar store,

surrounded by red and blue lights that were there when he lived 

and would be there long after he died.

Hades does not care about the broken home in Mississippi.

He glances at the trembling kneed girl in the middle of

a blue grey living room she grew up in, trying to convince her 

mother she is still the same girl she was yesterday. Only

now in love with the girl next door. Hades cracks a knuckle and 

side eyes her crumpled form on the tiled floor that comes 

with the arrival of her father and his gin fused fists. 

Hades only stares half interested at the tiny pale body

colored with red next to a curious dog named Noah.

He doesn’t care that the girl will spend the next week staring 

at the mirror wondering who made her, before meeting

her lover on the train tracks one last time.

 

Hades cannot care about single injustices in a world 

filled with injustice, or he’d never stop burning.