A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
answering a Tweet by Tara Skurtu
I’m sending my poems to reform school.
To prison. To the front lines. Straight to hell
on a one-way ticket. To the Safeway for milk,
eggs, bread, toilet paper. To the liquor store.
To church to pray themselves out of damnation.
To the floor of congress with a list of grievances
and the dreams of a half-million Americans who will
die of Covid-19. To Mar-a-Lago with a list of demands
and a box full of infected bats from China. To bed
without any supper. To Mars with shiny things
to leave behind and eviction notices for anyone
who lives there. To the kitchen for another beer.
Outside into the yard to let the stink blow off ‘em.
To their grandmother’s house to live for a while
because I can’t handle them anymore. To appear
in front of a tribunal in The Hague for word crimes.
Back to the manufacturer—they’re defective. To
the landfill. To the electric chair for being brown
and hungry. To the boardroom for being white
and privileged. Down the tubes. Over the moon.
Under the radar. Out of the park. I’m sending my
poems packing. I’m corking my poems into a thousand
empty wine bottles, tossing them out into the roiling sea
as the tide begins to recede, standing on the sands
of loneliness and waving goodbye to my feelings
and ideas, praying they’ll wash up on friendly shores.
Matt Hohner is the author of Thresholds and Other Poems (Apprentice House, 2018). He lives in Baltimore, Maryland.
Copyright 2021 Matt Hohner