Academy of American Poets Prize, 2017

 

Sick of it. The insistent certainty of violence 

begetting a preset not surprised. It is difficult 

to make meaning from slaughter. It is difficult

to slaughter meaning and make. So many aches 

and breaks and good doctors touting elixirs and 

fixers, that work just as well as tying off a flea bit

limb until it turns blue and the body rejects it. Sick

of it, I call out “lord just say the word and we'll be

healed” The 83 passes at the corner where the mad

bag lady refrains from calling the passersby butchers

for the day, to brag about the raspberry pie she made

for The Knights of Columbus. Lord, I listen for the word

and I’m sick of its language and tongue tied off to become

blue and be rejected by the body.