face the end of it all with a glib remark

"What is poetry which does not save nations or people?"

Czeslaw Milosz

Erica Hopper

Chew the eyes slowly. You have lined up the eyes of six cats on a plate, and you have in your hand a spoon made of the finest silver. The room is new to you; before this, your father never let you in here. You, who have wintered in the dark and summered in the warm light. This is your Chernobyl, your Dachau. Shame and denial are twin births in family after family. The honey is all gone now, eaten by the barbarians, armed with rifles. Here, the bees serve an evil queen. Here, the hive speaks an imperfect English. A chill, born of fear, not temperature, fills the silent room. What can you do? You push the eyes onto the spoon with one of your dirty fingers, and you lift it to your mouth and eat.

__________

Death is knocking at the door.

Please, let him in.

I wasn't going to live forever anyway.

Death has always been waiting for me,

Like a poor man waiting at a bus stop.

Today, tomorrow; is there a difference?

I'm not sure what comes next, but whatever it is,

I would rather stroll in upright than cower and wait.

Face the end of it all with a glib remark.

A smirk.

Death is a hot iron, and friend,

This shirt is wrinkled. 

__________

If you can, hide me.

Cut a door into the gray sky and lock me behind it.

Raise up the edge of the river and let me slip under

while no one is watching.

Hide me in trees, hide me in seas.

I will shave off this beard and change my name,

I will purchase a hat that hides my eyes and shadows my face

and sends a subconscious message to people on the street

to move away from me.

I want silence and solitude.

I want secrecy.

I am dangerous, I am ridiculous, I am nothing.

Nothing.

James Lee Jobe

a poem by Ada Limón, The Quiet Machine

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James Lee Jobe