Love takes the form of rain clouds: we accumulate despite our im/possible wounds, gather even in miraculous conditions. We join our kin in the swarm, all of whom gathering, like us, as waters from unknowable sources. And then the flood.
The building next door was stripped naked, its shattered windows gaping onto disarranged kitchens and bedrooms. My aunt’s building was leveled entirely.
“Pow,” she said, flattening the air between her hands.
here: here: here: here: take what I have in exchange
(but what do I have?) just this:
Dear sky,
where were you
when our homes were being
bombed?
above the ghetto in flames
frantically dance the goddesses
of vengeance & conquest
Toussaint Nate Turner Leila Khaled John Brown Tubman Joseph Garang
(2 name but so many few)
They say the father refused
to be a collaborator. And the mother,
a physician, a specific kind of witness,
had looked at her killers the wrong way.
the professor likes to do magic tricks & i hate him for it. he uses tricks to get out of needing to explain the mechanistic truth behind reactions.
I might turn
twenty
next month
I might not. . .
She has bound herself to listening and has been careful not to speak for her subjects. Even the very act of stealing the camera is part of this redressing.
I await her daily dispatches so I can edit and publish them. I get this homework done quickly, afraid any tardiness would disappoint the teacher.
But for me, the ways in which poems allow a reader to access feeling, I think those are also the ways in which poems are really useful political tools. Because a poem does not allow politics to be disentangled from the material reality of feeling.
If I could,
Dear martyr, I would not leave you here
In a poem, but in my arms