"Dear Madam Secretary of Homeland Security."
"All day, the tatters of a hurricane blow overhead,
black swaths of thunder and slicing rain,
marble swirls of cloud.
Grass brightens against the gray.
Steers call back.
A cardinal and his mate worry through the possumhaw.
On a fence post, she preens.
She cocks her head and calls.
He flits and glides, carrying sunflower seeds from the picnic
table to her orange beak, and when the rains return,
they thread their way further into the ailanthus tree.
The Ladies Birthday Almanac warns, 'Weaning children
should not be done when the moon is in Sagittarius or Capricorn.
Do not cut a nerve when Mercury is afflicted.'
Last night, I dreamed of a porcelain dinner plate.
I turned over small bones, picking
at caramel-colored meat, my fork discovering the rust
and gray tail feathers of the female cardinal
I'd been watching for days.
I carried the plate to the kitchen to accuse.
The cook turned and threw her dish rag, shaking her head,
shouting to someone else as she walked down the hall.
My stomach grew sour and sore.
Madam, do you ever get the feeling
there's something wrong with how things are run?
West Africans bury their children by the dozen.
Tropical depressions spiral through the afternoon,
and when the cardinal spits out his high, hard song,
are we responsible to him as well?
What a time then to be an American in love.
The Ladies Birthday Almanac warns, 'Never
plant under barren signs.
Cut timber in the old of moon.'
What a time then, Madam, to feel the cool remorse of dusk
when cornrows sway uneasily in the backyard,
when a bull's cry resembles the sound of a branch when
it breaks."
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]