XI

twenty-nine thousand and twenty-three

at what point do we admit we’re frightened?
when the lakes stop their cycling, to stew,
current-less, to fester, again, in their rot?

when a woman mustn’t have that child,
when, again, the men here say
she will and she’ll enjoy it?

when, again, a young man injures one,
murders two—let’s call it by its name,
no sense beating around these men—
without consequence?

when I, again, return to the lover
who expects my death, when the streets
can’t lose me on my way anymore?

I’ve grown accustomed to the city,
its design, stolid, its grip, glittering,
which pairs, gorgeous, with the ruthlessness

when a militant police force invades,
again, a land that was never theirs,
and that land, again, is flooded,

beneath the flood, burns,
beneath the burns, bile,
beneath the bile, dirt,
beneath the dirt, clay,
inside the clay,
to our careful attention,
a tendency, still, toward hope—