Poem As Attempt To Function As American Progress
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.
The Poet, Having Lost Her Voice, Listens
Quiet inside the crumbling. Beheaded
trees weep unheard for their lost crowns.
A plane glides through speechless blue like
a wandering eye. Everywhere the heart
pumps against the studs of its iron suit.
There was a time when poetry felt enough.
I opened my mouth and crowed at the light
for its false gifts. Teeth that shone wetly
as they bit the tongue. A daughter, I thought
wrath-oiled ambition would make jasmine
grow out of slandered meat. It is so easy
to live without magic, accumulating Prime
deliveries. Glitter the wound, billboard
as art demands for rescue from those who
have only a nuclear ending to offer. If, and
when no more ski trips can be squeezed from
the stone of for-retirement living, there is
at least the promise of deletion. Narcissus’
pool in our hands: the checkpoint we seem
to all agree on. Grow the brand, singe beyond
risk of touch. This is safety. Just as quiet is
chainsaw-roar, helicopter-thump, siren-
keen, clock-tick, traffic-hiss, tyrant-garble,
wailing like wood chips in the blood.
Cynthia Dewi Oka
Originally from Bali, Indonesia, Cynthia Dewi Oka is a poet, mother, and teacher. She has authored four books of poems, most recently A Tinderbox in Three Acts, a Blessing the Boats Selection chosen by Aracelis Girmay (BOA Editions, 2022) and Fire Is Not a Country (Northwestern University Press, 2021). She is currently based in Chicago, working on new projects. For updates, follow @freedewi on IG.