To the City in Translation
At twelve, you awake each morning evaporating
your public faith limits you, your ears inessential
to the symphony, your uncertainty crawls the cold
avenues of your clavicle, you siphon your blood
to an anemic language, by twenty-one, you are steeped
within a suspended city, the operator says there is no fare
to pay today, beyond the subway’s static walls of each
other’s unknown whereabouts, in this prolific silence
the city always veers from, this ultimatum to every nation:
With us. Against us. You stand with an X-ray of the real,
its massacres difficult to decipher, your own struggles written
in an impossible language, a necessary one, you parse
the city’s wires, at the threshold of doctrine you form
to be on another tongue, you concrete a common thing.
Copyright © 2024 by Anna Lee-Popham. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.