after Wanda Coleman
JuneWe die.
JuneSoon we die in March, April, May
JuneMother may I? Yes you may.
JuneMother, your back is turned. Ah, there’s your face.
JuneWe march.
JuneJanuaryArberyMarchTaylorMay
JuneAugustRememberOctoberDecember
December
JuneWe march. Everyone is a world to someone.
JuneIf another person uses “knee on the neck” as
a metaphor I will scream.
JuneI teach myself how to run. Run. Walk. Run.
Walk.
JuneI pay quarterly taxes to the government of
the United States of America.
JuneTwo friends miscarry. L’s father succumbs to
pancreatic cancer. J’s mom is killed in a car
crash.
JuneI turn off the news because I can turn the
news off.
JuneI name the world. I name the time and its
sands.
JuneAaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh
JuneA neighbor loses his wife and daughter in
one week. I remember standing across from
the daughter. I can see her face. Years from
now, on an astonished
Juneday, her son will confuse memory for
photograph.
JuneThe first snow.
JuneA world becomes a repetition, a cry.
JuneAmerica
JuneThis is your July freedom. This is your
threshing floor.
JuneMy mouth is lion wide. I reread
JuneJordan: “My name is my own my own my
own.” Lucille Clifton: “and the land is in
ruins, / no magic, no anything.” Gwendolyn
Brooks: “We are lost, must / Wizard a track
through our own screaming weed.”
JuneWe jazz. We
JuneI bite my fist.
JuneI cast my pathetic, triumphant ballot.
JuneShucking corn, I find a worm.
JuneI look over my shoulder when I run. Walk.
Lurk. Lurch.
JuneI pay quarterly taxes to the government
of the United States of—If another
person says “a few bad apples” I’ll—
Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh—my mouth is roaring
with a human head.
JuneClifton: “the question for you is / what have
you ever traveled toward / more than your
own safety?”
JuneI
JuneI sing insufficiently.
JuneA word becomes incantation.
JuneOne of many graces.
June I haven’t ever cried.
after Wanda Coleman JuneWe die. JuneSoon we die in March, April, May JuneMother may I? Yes you may. JuneMother, your back is turned. Ah, there’s your face. JuneWe march. JuneJanuaryArberyMarchTaylorMay JuneAugustRememberOctoberDecember December JuneWe march. Everyone is a world to someone. JuneIf another person uses “knee on the neck” as a metaphor I will scream. JuneI teach myself how to run. Run. Walk. Run. Walk. JuneI pay quarterly taxes to the government of the United States of America. JuneTwo friends miscarry. L’s father succumbs to pancreatic cancer. J’s mom is killed in a car crash. JuneI turn off the news because I can turn the news off. JuneI name the world. I name the time and its sands. JuneAaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh JuneA neighbor loses his wife and daughter in one week. I remember standing across from the daughter. I can see her face. Years from now, on an astonished Juneday, her son will confuse memory for photograph. JuneThe first snow. JuneA world becomes a repetition, a cry. JuneAmerica JuneThis is your July freedom. This is your threshing floor. JuneMy mouth is lion wide. I reread JuneJordan: “My name is my own my own my own.” Lucille Clifton: “and the land is in ruins, / no magic, no anything.” Gwendolyn Brooks: “We are lost, must / Wizard a track through our own screaming weed.” JuneWe jazz. We JuneI bite my fist. JuneI cast my pathetic, triumphant ballot. JuneShucking corn, I find a worm. JuneI look over my shoulder when I run. Walk. Lurk. Lurch. JuneI pay quarterly taxes to the government of the United States of—If another person says “a few bad apples” I’ll— Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh—my mouth is roaring with a human head. JuneClifton: “the question for you is / what have you ever traveled toward / more than your own safety?” JuneI JuneI sing insufficiently. JuneA word becomes incantation. JuneOne of many graces. June I haven’t ever cried.