Cat prints in the concrete, I
stop and marvel, joy in
tiny thunders, accidental
permanence achieved
unawares, the air so
frigid but magic so
warm it’s worth unburying
rosy knuckles for the photo.
My hope is a matchstick
trembling in hurricane days, I
harbor it fiercely, when my
laughter breaks free, I
forget the way the
television set got them
addicted to their anger, the
red hat hatred, the
bellowing yelp insisting
‘it must be their fault
my dreams died in my
wanting arms,’ I revel in
the revolution of belting
Celine Dion in a sea of men
who grew up afraid to speak
above a whisper, we will
hear the death rattle
to this wrathful cacophony,
will be dancing still.
How do I ensure
my life remains a love letter
to hope and not fury?
Fumbling fingers, I
practice my penmanship,
community, gratitude, joy,
belonging, light, we
can always start the
song again, we.
michael king 