July 10, 2016The Dead Line
The deadline is becoming a ritual:
I am, I guess, a woman who needs to know
when I should stop writing this poem.
It’s a tool, a trick, and
I am, I guess, a woman who needs to know
the dead line drawn around us;
it’s a tool, a trick, and
a chorus of voices, headlines, hashtags.
The dead line drawn around us:
a convenience store. Beyond that point we are liable to die.
A chorus of voices, of headlines, of hashtags:
I know this song; I sang it last week.
A convenience store? Beyond that point we are liable to die?
This week his name was Alton, but
I know this song; I sang it last week
when his name was “dead,” “black,” and “in police custody.”
This week his name was Alton, but
maybe I’m cheating: maybe I’ve written this before,
when his name was “dead,” “black,” and “in police custody.”
How can an editor even begin to tell
if maybe I’m cheating? Maybe I’ve written this before:
the deadline is becoming a ritual.
How can an editor even begin to tell
when I can stop writing this poem?
from Poets Respond