(For Milo R.; for Pei)
This arrogant autonomy, which is guaranteed the police, not only in New York, by the most powerful forces in American life — otherwise, they would not dare to claim it would indeed be unable to claim it— creates a situation which is as close to anarchy as it already, visibly, is close to martial law.
— James Baldwin, “A Report from Occupied Territory”
Who are the broken-hearted whose forget-me-not names
simmer & flail, summer & sunder, catch rain
in the palm of your hand?
Who are the hungers, morning blue & ultramarine?
This is a time, perhaps now more
than ever, I want to know
your exiles, your sapphire
memories. We are an emergency
meeting point for our histories
collisions midnight disasters, we are
always I hear you in my ear
I hear the yonder sound —
your questions scaling cliffs. Even
in a fear of heights, your questions
peak & sky, challenge
the drop, bodied. How far
they see from up there. A lupine
& ipomoea dream. I never forget
the beauty of your people
& my people, a swirling dust setting
us ablaze like the clam’s good mouth. Though
they tremble, teal, & sweat. Say
wide & many,
how far & who
imagine
how we eject the empty-hearted offices:
thunder and fire of billy club & leaded bean,
the uniformed arrogance toward autopsy,
the “defense strategy” of subjugations:
spectacular defeat of fathers,
spectred deferral of futures.
A shrewdness and sounder of griefs.
Ask instead the emperor butterfly to lead us
an azure realm of remembering, aspiration.
Watch wings brew storms for miles.
Listen. That’s the sound of us up there
on the edge. Birds now, blue starlings, perhaps.
Peering down on imperial architectures,
our laughter shattering brick
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