Susan L. Leary

—BLK, 8/27/2020

Here, where the moon has been removed from the ether

& the only rule is the rules will change. The howl eclipses

the dog & the dog eclipses the easily-granted freedom

of another that sleeps inside a hand beside a gun. Here,

where someone in a uniform beats time into something

it is not. Regarding my brother’s paperwork, the most common

words are almost & soon, which enduringly translate

to never. & how to kill it? Time. The panic that fills the hands

like water, no like air, no like the edgy wonder of sunrise

that for a brief period dissolves all tedium. Morning,

too often, a false & rare sage. Because here, everything

is plentiful & tomorrow is fucked up. Here, where silence

abounds in the lungs as much as wilderness & prayer

figures as outbreak. How not to kill it? How not to imagine

every strand of light as a possible coping mechanism?

Yellow is the color most closely aligned to violet because

somebody said so. Because a life can be anything. Because

the torch will burn the hand that first set the fire ablaze.

Because here, inside the court of no reason, everything

is plentiful & tomorrow is fucked up. Here, where against

the feebleness of heart & mind & body & paper, only language

outlives. How not to kill it? The children swallow it whole.