"Good Morning, America."
Headline.
The unthinkable's already, already happened again.
And so, Layleen Polanco's perfect face
swings back into the orbit of my grief.
Ketchup.
It's the anniversary of the aftermath
of another bad massacre.
And I've got plenty of seeds.
Come in, I whisper to the wailing in the attic.
Come in, to the thunder,
To any sound that'll shake me from dooms haze.
Dispatches from Kenosha, Louisville, Atlanta arrive,
arrive
Like a steady kick drum of sparrows,
Spatchcocked by gravity.
Little nevers, little couldn'ts.
Too late to stop the video.
Too late, too late.
I hold each stolen face against my forehead
as the centuries slough off.
Flightless century and its scythes.
Century, and its literal marks and mobs.
As a child, I couldn't believe my luck.
Born in the best country on Earth.
Now I know better.
So what?
Good morning, what's done is done is.
Come in last year's rent.
Grief's a heavy planet and green.
I know better than to call each gravity's daughter
to my softest cheek.
I know, and I know.
So what?
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.
Here's what's happening.
This is the weird moment where we start to be like,
do we clap after every poem?
Do we snap?
Are we silent?
The answer is that you can do any of the above.
As long as we collectively decide it's not awkward,
it won't be awkward.
Cool?
So, yeah, whatever you feel moved to do.
And if that's just sitting and taking a breath,
that's totally cool.
OK, so yeah.
Yeah, there we go.
Nice.
[APPLAUSE]