Not Yet America.
We are old people marching and yelling, waving signs we painted ourselves, just as we did when we were kids. The street never changes: drinkers watch from a bar, suds glinting on their upper lips. A bald man is being shaved in a barbershop. The chair swivels toward us: how round those eyes are, in a face smothered under lather. A baker in a white paper bag hat stares from a doorway, clapping flour from his hands. Behind an iron grille, a nun sighs and crosses herself. Apparently we will always have to march, singing songs to keep awake, calling "peace" and "justice" as if those gaps could answer: in the numbing cold, even in the night sky, in the empty quadrant of Scorpio. There you'll find us, and the street too, since it stretches forever. A bodega with steel gates. A jiffy lube. A chainlink fence on which someone has spraypainted the first stroke of the first letter of a name.
D. Nurkse's most recent book is Love in the Last Days (Knopf, 2017).
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|Title Annotation:||THREE POEMS|
|Publication:||The American Poetry Review|
|Date:||Mar 1, 2019|
|Previous Article:||The Screen.|
|Next Article:||OF MORNING GLASS: Becoming a swimmer.|