inspired by Tracy K. Smith’s “The Universe as Primal Scream”
Once I believed we were veering toward heaven,
like a spacecraft on course
toward our inheritance—
or, if not toward heaven, then at least earthward,
a better earth, her tresses shining
like blue gemstones
licked by water’s slick and thirsty
tongue. Remind me, was I wrong,
am I wrong? Is hope unfeathered,
unbuttoned, an apparition in ragged
nightclothes, hiccupping and drunk?
Remind me again, how we make it through. And,
for whom. How we once wore the white
viburnum of suffragists. And, now,
decamp to foreign countries or forests
where dung beetles creak through undergrowth
and moths tease nectar. Some will stay home,
bake apple cobbler, others plunge
themselves into Plath or Austen or haggled
sleep? Remind me, if you remember,
is there still a cobbled
pathway toward reverie—
and how and when? Is there no hidden force
to guide us? I can barely speak,
barely reach beyond the racket
of despair. The decibel of desire
is so quiet in dusk’s golden mouth.
–
Poet’s Note
After the election, I read many calls to continue the work, to persevere, and while that is absolutely essential, I believe that griefwork and deep reflection are necessary precursors for our own healing and the healing of others. This poem holds space for lament.
–
Sandra Fees’ poetry has appeared in Crab Creek Review, Nimrod, River Heron Review and Witness, among others. Her first full-length collection, Wonderwork (BlazeVOX Books), was released in October 2024. She is a Unitarian Universalist minister.
