The Best Con/Jur/d, 4/23/2021 The best poem is the one never written not subject to understanding, critique, into a doorway, readers coming by searching, demanding for an explanation, “Look, at the beginning you say crow, later you say raven a completely different corvid, Which_____Is_____________it?” enunciated into submission. My partners often articulate my flaws, “The gap between your teeth is no excuse for poor pronunciation.” They can’t see un- written poems, the one’s describing, the feel of talons on your head from a baby hawk while their mother circles, circles. “Danger my child, danger!” the peculiar wet/dry sensation your eyes have with the imminent threat of being removed from sockets, and your father’s voice becomes distant while the smell of Summer-swamp grows louder and louder and louder and you want to yell, “Someone, take out the garbage!” frightening tufted-friend whose mom will descend, and you hear your brother’s “Shoo, shoo.” intimate and very very, very, very, funny, and the Accipitridae adolescent wonders, “Why is my tree stump, shaking without high winds ruffling feathers.” 3 raptorial toes tighten, without thought, intervention. An afternoon's suspension, in nothing, everything, more, becoming hawk, becoming claw, becoming suppressed laughter, held shrill screaming, becoming, father, brother, swamp, becoming a lone tree, early orange foliage, being circled, clearly under- standing her song of “Come home! Come home!” can never be written, can never be bound, tied, put down, at this random moment, one Spring in-between snow and the humming of bees, and the minor wind from the swatting of mosquitoes. It can’t! And it won’t! Nothing lived can ever be captured. Already without thinking you have made it your own. The raptor arises, you straighten your arms, to be more like a tree, and obligingly, mother’s alarm, unwarranted, but taking a toll, you feel wing primaries, and cartilage squish transmitted, by remige to your propatagium -- No, you don’t know those words-- Others did, designs on creating poetry, class - fication, poor, poor subs - stitutes for this experience, of what is happening to you, right here, right now. You open your hand and fly. You open your talon, soar. You fly. You soar. It would be sad, it would be a shame, to ground to poetry, to commit poetics. I’m sure, from this perspective, azure blue and sun’s rays at your back, father and brother excitedly showing thumping affection, you would agree.
Happy 23rd! Later y’all, much love,