You are given a cross as seagulls scream. You are watched from a marigold covered window moonbeam over your back. You are trying to find something you’ve lost something carved out of you dropped somewhere to dissolve. You are dissolving. You are mist unmissed. Dropped down down. You want to tear away the marigolds say See me here. I am here. Here. You detest the moon despite how she makes you glow. You wonder about the watcher the known unknown. You hold the cross with both palms press it to your chest. You have given too much too much of you gone. You have lost.
The streaks that heat made pressure. Beneath the ground until exposed to water air our assiduous feet. We don’t want to slip crash into what has been crashing for millions of years. I watch a family of guillemots float on dazzling crests. I will not look at you. Preferring the sunset the empty houses that seem to melt. However you are in the sunset. The one I see know. You are probably looking at me. Waiting for me to turn. To reassure we are good you are? No. You have caused what is excruciating.
A burning sky a flock of cardinals burning to be reborn. This is sacrifice. Red barns burn in a sundown town. Red summer burned blacks. Tulsa was burned black for being in the black. Such red dreams a flock of cardinals burning to be reborn elsewhere. Perhaps in a red maple wood on a continent’s edge burning.
Angela Davis Lewiston 1991
This is what we say in churches. This is what we say in three-piece suits. This is what we say in this war that war them all. This is what we say with green hair. This is what we say here. This is what we say in buses. This is what we say in the Middle East. This is what we say to alienation. This is what we say in loud voices. This is what we say at home. This is what we say to bombs. This is what we say to black people bombed. This is what we say to autonomy. This is what we say to connection. This is what we say to everybody everybody everybody. This is what we say to confusion. This is what we say to fight the wronging power. This is what we say say say say.
MYRONN HARDY is the author of, most recently, Radioactive Starlings. His poems have appeared in The New York Times Magazine, Ploughshares, POETRY, The Georgia Review, The Baffler, and elsewhere. He lives in Maine.
Artwork by David Dodd Lee.
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