Sometimes I ask myself
What would the oppressive society least want me to do?
This is a useful question to ask when I’m feeling crushed under the questions that more often hammers through my mind, “What should I do? What’s the right thing to do? How can I help?” and other variations on this theme. Those questions, I don’t know the “right” answer to, and so I can feel panicky and stuck.
So instead, I sometimes remember to ask myself back, “What would the oppressive society least want me to do? What would really piss off capitalism, racism, and the whole kyriarchy today?” I can usually come up with one or two answers to this question, instead of getting sunk.
The oppressive society wouldn’t want me to rest. Or to feel joy. Or to feel, really feel, my grief. One of my answers, not surprisingly, is that the oppressive society wouldn’t want me to either write or read some poems. To attempt tell the truth, to listen to someone else attempt to tell the truth.
I'VE LOST THE SMELL OF YOUTH by Leigh Chadwick I'm too tired to find the stairs that lead to heaven. Still, I think I'm doing okay. Still steeped in lavender, l miss you still, the morning dew on your shoulder blades and, still, the spilled rum on the carpet, the soft yawn of the sun still stepping over its own sighs, as I reach across the bed to taste the stale, still mint from your tongue while somewhere, a town grows so still it will never wake again. Don't worry, I promise this is a love poem. Still, the chyron at the bottom of the television screen still reads BREAKING NEWS as weeks later, bombs still keep stealing kisses from buildings. I hear Jesus wept, but I'm pretty sure he's still weeping. I promise this really is a love poem. Still, I never forget to count the bullet casings still scattered along the linoleum floor of the produce section of Kroger. Still, I miss you so much, it's stupid. Still, My dad was dying and then he was dead. Still, my sister, the same. So, if I grow too quiet to be still, please tell my daughter that sometimes a door is still a door, and sometimes a backpack is still a backpack, just with a bulletproof spine. Tell her, still, sometimes all you can do is duck and be still. Tell her my favorite history lesson still hasn't been written, and that after everything, sometimes there is still nothing else to say except help, please help, as I tell you yes, this is still a love poem.
I have an in-person reading to celebrate the launch of my book Rupture at the Boutelle-Day Poetry Center at Smith College this Wednesday, January 31 at 7 pm, and I’d love to see you, if you’re able to join us.