November 12, 2024Post-Election Abecedarian
America, a gleaming ship—mighty engines,
billowing sails—the wind at our backs one minute, hurricanes
careening toward us the next. And our captain-to-be, once again,
does not call for All hands on deck!—alarm bells signaling
Every man for himself! Yes sir—women the first to be
frightened now—new crewmen taking charge of the infirmaries,
galleys, locking up their secret banquets, their fists proudly raised.
How clever, some believe, the constant riggings—ropes tied
into convoluted knots, and maps redrawn, based on coded
judgement. O say, can you see the country’s compass
keeps fogging—despite the talk of reading it clearly,
letting faith lead us, even as the waters darken.
Menacing—the threats we cannot see, the sharkish hunger,
nets upon nets dragged across the evening news. We’re tired
of snagging only lies, of casting for giant truths, what with icebergs
primed to go on melting, and those at the helm
questioning the data—rising temperatures, no big deal!
Rules of the sea, broken. In these stormy gales, our flag
snaps and frays, shackles clang, and the mast
teeters—our nausea churning amid pledges of allegiance.
Until January—beyond January—let us hold our
vessel safe, keep the cracks from spreading, work to
weld, reweld, push onward. Afterall, our children need
extra hope now, need a route out of the rage. Don’t most of us
yearn for a buoyant voyage, for a way to stop our frantic
zigs and zags, to steer together, free ourselves to sail as one?
from Poets Respond