Rain kept me in watching bougainvilleas.
Tap water’s ice cold, not as chillin’ as cold
elsewhere. We’re finished, with what?
Bare mood sunning in one’s own bastion.
Poem drowns old beliefs. I’d watched them gasp.
Cheap as you’d say. They’re dirt, beliefs,
mounds of them. The rain, unstoppable!
Truths lie as extraordinary as grass.
I’d been rock solid, haven’t I, as someone
who’d served out of the system so you’d
believe, believe and believe all that stored
ammunition like gold within hummocky love.
I’d just read a very thoughtful essay by a student from Trumpland. I get it. Last evening I’d watched a documentary about Trumpland. Down to Ku Klux Klan beliefs about white supremacy, it’s about beliefs isn’t it? I believe therefore I am. Everyone’s beliefs are differently shaped by their geography and circumstance. At the end of the day it’s all about survival isn’t it? Like the student who wrote the essay I hope for a middle path. Extremists on both sides of the divide represent their truths. Truths are more complicated than that. Just like the white woman who doesn’t get the women’s march, which grew so epic yesterday, is it because she is speaking from a position of privilege? Having grown up in a sanctuary, how would she know the other’s truth? Society fought for women’s rights back then, but those rights continue to be violated and is it so wrong that women, in solidarity, refuse to be silenced? If you remain in silence, then you’re complicit. Didn’t someone say that poetry doesn’t simplify these truths? Be glad for poetry–it gets a bad rap, and continue to be berated for its uselessness in a world that privileges economic truths above all else. Write about your truth, sure, but then know that it’s not somebody else’s truth. So what is truth, friends and frenemies?