Poet’s Introduction

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about dehumanization (cheerful, I know). But the longer I live, the more I think this is the real basis of all – not just most, but all – of the evils we see in the world. And so, when people talk about poetry of witness or documentation, that means to me a poetry of rehumanization. What is important is not that people agree about things, especially in a democracy; what is important is that people are always deeply aware of the humanity of others, whether they agree with them or not.

Authority

is a nineteen-year-old boy
with short-cropped hair
and stubby fingers
and a uniform and a gun

he is watching a woman
his eyes wide
she is younger than she looks
squatting by the metal fence

what is the worst that can happen
if he ignores her
what is the worst that can happen
if he acts

he shifts his weight
like a nervous student
one with an important test
the teacher forgot to attend

and what is she doing
neither laughing nor crying
her whispering is too soft
to be called singing

For Peace

There is the peace of the moment
..before the pull of the trigger,
....and the peace after.

There is the blank white peace
..of the silent snowfield,
....motionless and cold,

the small red peace
..of the rabbit not crawling
....away from the fox.

There is the peace of the tree
..lying shattered after the storm,
....damp wood slowly rotting,

the peace before the footsteps
..and the opening
....of the door.

There is no peace for the winner—
..the victorious wolf, licking
....its red paws—

Peace belongs to us, lying
..frozen in the snow, hands
....still bound behind our backs—

The peace of the small hole,
..the ragged-edged cut—
....the peace of silence

settling upon us,
..flake
....by flake.

Prescriptions for Self-Help

For despair: wailing and weeping
until your voice blends in the cacophony
and your tears mingle in the dirt

For suffering: dancing out of yourself,
spinning, stomping, passing partner
to partner until they are infinite

For anger—the kind of powerless anger
that leaves you bone-weary and frail:
singing and never stopping

Not even after you die, whether they
fill your mouth with dirt
as they bury you, or whether

they wrap their hands, a noose,
around your throat, until
there’s no air left in this world—

They shake the dust off their hands
after a job well-done; one wipes a drip of sweat
from their forehead—walking home,

they pass under fragrant pines, birds
singing—something familiar tickles their minds,
although they haven’t realized it yet—

years later, your skull safely away,
your vocal cords rotted into dust,
they pass a group of children playing—

their jumprope song becomes an itch
in the brain, impossible to scratch,
impossible to ignore. No one would say

you are the winner here, if
they even knew your name. But
each day, sleep eludes them a little longer.

For guilt—the kind of inescapable guilt
that leaves you bone-weary and frail:
nothing

nothing but listening and never stopping,
listening forever in case the song becomes forgiveness,
forgiveness, forever, nothing

Notes

“Authority” first appeared in the 2024 Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar.