So the book is divided into six sections.
And the second section is called, in a sort of bold move,
"Activism in Poetry: Some Brief Reports."
And this is a prose poem.
So a prose poem is just a poem in prose,
which means that the lines go to the edge of the right margin.
But it still matters that you count every word,
that every word matters, that you still
use metaphor and rhythm and all the things that poetry uses.
And every word counts, and the line order counts,
and the measures count, but it's just
can write all the way to the right margin.
That's what a prose poem.
But it's really an essay.
And the Jane in this is Jane Miller,
who was part of this action.
And I'll say more in a second.
"Activism in Poetry: A Brief Report."
Sometimes I'm called an activist-poet,
maybe to make my aesthetically odd poetry
seem more relevant or marketable to audiences other than poets.
I've gotten to dislike the term activist-poet, especially
the hyphen.
Mostly, I'm not active, and feel passive dread,
bringing pagan practices outside,
talking to insects and plants during the minutes, et cetera.
My practicism occurs too rarely, but basically, I
can't stand 95% of what is going on about anything.
On Friday of National Pollinators Week,
it is suggested that we take letters
to our local Kroger market for a campaign against pesticides.
Kroger uses deadly pesticides in their brand.
Had signed up to drop off a letter
to the manager of Kroger.
I've never heard of Kroger before this.
I'm from Berkeley.
I drive to the nearest Kroger.
My friend Jane comes along for support.
She is a great, calm, beautiful woman.
The area around the store is being gentrified
and is getting whiter.
We're supposed to hand letters to the managers directly.
A large percent of insect species
will go extinct by the end of the century.
I'd like to become a bee when I'm non-human.
B will be a bee.
My letter says, "Kroger's brand contains glyphosates,
organophosphates, and neonicotinoids."
I go into the market.
The security guard looks bored, but the energy over her
is silver.
She has long, brush-like lashes, maybe even an inch long.
She points to the cashier.
Endangered things in Kroger on the shelves
include apples, sardines, plastic purple beach balls.
The humans are in danger.
There is Roundup.
It is National Pollinator Week.
The cashier calls the manager for me.
He comes out.
I'm the only white person in Kroger.
I feel shame for having come here.
White person from Berkeley telling N, a worker of color,
not in my neighborhood, what he shouldn't have on his shelves
because the bees are dying.
Profit systems are full of violence, is my usual line.
N, the manager, is friendly and not tired.
I experience the energy over him as vital, golden flecks
of winged things that could enter
his circle without danger.
I am a teacher, I explain.
I want humans to go on living.
Can't Kroger do something, I say, and hand him a letter.
He looks at me with mild pity.
Energy wings while we are talking.
They never listen to us, he says.
He says, call national Kroger and tell them what you told me.
I start to say, Kroger is committing economic terror
on the people of your city.
The cereal, and even the beans have been horribly sprayed,
buzzing of moral confusion.
I'm a white person coming into a store
not in my town to hand the letter.
The young cashier waits while this is happening.
All this.
She is as patient as Mary in a painting.
I say to N, can't you just take my letter?
He takes it.
Both of us know they never listen to us.
To learn more about this, visit beeaction.org,
is what my letter says.
Capitalism will last longer than the bees.
I saw a dead bee near our hive.
Sometimes, I feel terrible after "activism," but sometimes not.
Depends on what gets folded in.
Whether or not I feel terrible is irrelevant.
But folding in the why feeling even a tiny bit less terrible
seems to be part of it.