And I'll read one last poem.
And I think there'll still be time for a couple of questions
and books.
And this is sort of, indeed, a bookend
to the first poem I wrote.
And it's another pantoum and written, in part,
in memory of Adrienne Rich.
Were the mountain women sold as slaves
in the city my friend has not written from for two weeks?
One of the Just has given back his medal.
I wake up four times in the night soaked with sweat.
In the city my friend has not written from,
for two weeks there was almost enough electricity.
I wake up four times in the night soaked with sweat
and change my shirt and go to sleep again.
There was almost enough electricity
to heat water, make tea, bathe, write emails,
and change her shirt and go to sleep again.
Her mother has gallstones.
Her sister mourns.
Heat water, make tea, bathe, write emails
to Mosul, New York, London, Beirut.
Her sister mourns a teen-aged son
who died in a stupid household accident.
To Mosul, Havana, London, Beirut,
I change the greeting, change the alphabet.
War, like a stupid household accident,
changes the optics of a scene forever.
I changed the greeting, changed the alphabet, hola,
morning of light, ya compañera, changed the optics of a scene
forever, present, and always altogether elsewhere.
Morning of roses, kiss you, hasta
luego to all our adolescent revolutions,
present and always altogether elsewhere.
It seemed as if something would change for good tomorrow.
All our adolescent revolutions gone gray
drink exile's coffee if they're lucky.
It seemed as if something would change for good tomorrow.
She was our conscience and she died too early.
The gray exiles drink coffee if they're lucky.
Gaza's survivors sift through weeping rubble.
She was our conscience, but she died too early
after she spoke of more than one disaster.
Cursing, weeping, survivors sift through rubble.
One of the Just has given back his medal
after he spoke of more than one disaster.
How can we sing our songs if we are slaves?
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]