Today's poem is by Therí Alyce Pickens

Variation on a Theme
        after Gwendolyn Brooks and other furious flowers

We tired, two syllables, no are. We
real tired cuz we tried to listen for real for real.
Cool. Not for play play. We kept our cool.

We keep tryin to save ourselves. We
left our own selves behind in case things went left.
School must reopen, they say. We can't reopen school.

We keep other folks and other things in mind. We
lurk in our homes and behind masks, lurk
late at night in our trembling thoughts. Lately,

we think about all the kinds of work we do.
Strikes seem a good idea. Back in the day, striking
straightened up a company, so here's some straight talk.

We tellin you: we feel this apocalypse in our bones. We
sing to thee of Shine and his hustle. We be singin
sinfully, all them low notes about keeping a piece, since

we know ain't nobody thinking about us. We:
thin boned and called essential. A lie so thin
genuine care slips through plus vermouth, lemon, bitters, gin.

We toast the inevitable cuz we know. We
jazz up the coming breathlessness. We listen for March jazz
in June. We been in the house since March. It's June.

We know there may not be an end. For if we must
die, we choose which monster murders us. Some of us will die
soon.

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from What Had Happened Was
Duke University Press Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission