[they went]

 This poem is fourth in a series unpacking a poem Derick wrote for me after we celebrated the release of Never Night, here in Palmer, Alaska. It was a wonderful evening at Sun Circle Farm, and Derick's poem from that night has always been special to me. 



[they went to eat and drink and listen to poetry. 
The children played and listened and spoke fell 
and were hurt crying for their fathers]
-Derick Burleson, July 2008

Is there poetry in the world, still? Suddenly
an angry chant, a roaring crowd's staccato 

is a brook. Listen.

Played over its lined and silvering rocks,
a melody spoken by fore-fathers

has a descant cried by their children's children's
children. 

And the mothers eat dried fruit from their purses,
stand and fall against concrete banks,

listen to one another, to a communal poem

about remaining free. 

Is there poetry still in the world? Hurt
with rocks, with thrown bricks, they still come, crying

stage whispers. Drink.

We've been told all this water
is fed by pure love, upstream of any violence,

fell from sky. Wait.

Is there poetry in this still world? Fathers
hurt by fathers who would not let them cry

stand with mothers hurt by loves who loved
too much drink.

Across this shallow, ice-cold water,
a bass line is being hummed by others.

Their throats are raw, thirsty. Listen. 

They've eaten bread, and salt. 
Folded cups from red paper.

A child drops her cup, which plays its butterfly
march 'til it sticks where tree-trunk fell. 

She cries. Water. 

Wind eats petal-pink rawness on faces-all of them. 
The child steps in 

to rescue her vessel. 
Both sides see her fall, see her begin drifting under.

Neither moves.