Poems Contra Nice
Ambient anxiety
is not the only ubiquity
in the air.
Hands raw from washing
that can’t stop.
Obsessive?
Compulsory into compulsive?
Our virus lives
canceled?
We keep bracing
- for elbow bumps
- and foot taps
- and air gap handshakes
and we wonder,
“Please, might we have a consoling poem?”
Where is the solace?
Where are the poets of salve and sanitation?
Where are their sonic reassurances ?
Listen.
They are there.
They are not solace,
but bloody sirens in the tornadic night,
raves
pushing against the real quarantines,
birthing new practices
that won’t necessarily be nice.
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Where are the poets of salve and sanitation?
here, maybe?
K
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I do not count myself among those who think poetry’s first purpose is to offer salve-ation, but I like all manner of poems. The only requirement I require is fearlessness. Why even speak if it’s not with remorselessness?
Harsh? I spose.
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I like poems. Thank you