As in, a locked cupboard of grudges
shimmering like freshly mined cobalt.
As in, a tail wagging in pursuit
of the pantsuit pressed to perfection.
I’ve missed the deadline for critical
feedback to make my rockets
come true. So, nowhere but here,
where eyeballs like moths
press themselves to the glow
of Rachel Maddow’s forehead
believing it the moon. Context
as the educated say, is everything,
as in the capacity to forget whose
fist of facts I live inside
the instant remembering strikes,
then burns, as tents do, and olives,
and humans whose right to be is
subject to my opinion. As in, how
else to enjoy a rare steak dinner
in the company of my phone? Even
the New York Times hasn’t called
the genocide a genocide. As in my taxes,
my stocks, my insurance, my retirement
plan to finally make art, my art,
my trauma, my vacation, my escape,
my spiritual growth, my platform, my
mortgage, my network, my net
worth, my candidates, my donations,
my distinctions, my horizons of hope,
my country, my commitment to harm
reduction, diversity, et cetera et cetera
because my goodness! It’s my time,
isn’t it? I’m just one person, trying
not to fail my father, who needs no less
sacrifice now than when he was not
dead. As in, my best, even when
the air turns plastic. Breathe. As in,
no one can do to mine what mine have
done to millions. As in, it’s not my
fault, it has never been my fault, that
the metaphor for war is your face.
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POETRY: Issue 35