The Body Politic
Allow us to introduce ourselves.
We are the people who dream
of ignoring road blocks and making
pariahs of all tomatoes.
Our intention is never to grieve
outside empty cages with
new packaging. In our eyes,
soft grass morphs into wind.
Now most of our barricades
look like painful roots of the past.
At least we know where dark-eyed
juncos join meetings with detectives.
Yes, it has been a very long, cold,
snowy night in the examining room
where we live. It’s high time
we lived on the moon, avoiding
drones and taking pride in our yards
of intimate struggle. We are outraged
that part of the common thread
slips past us. Our allies are slowly,
quietly backing away. Why don’t we
do something magnificent?
Let’s go to Mars and advance upon
a foundation of reckless growth.
Let’s create one final crack
in the solar system before winter
is upon us like a gray, disgusting truth.
Change happens, whether we look
at the divine or can’t save our season
of mushroom tea and sea dogs.
Our job is to welcome it. We are all
about to see spring wildflowers
turning into blazing badges of sadness
and ageless beauty. Maybe we’re ready
to let sleeping boats lie in stone monuments.
Let’s give it a shot. Working together,
we will do just fine. We’re all in this
together, with melted butter sticking
to our feet and hummingbirds
haunting us all with their young.
Cliff Saunders has an MFA in Creative Writing from The University of Arizona. His poems have appeared recently in The Wayne Literary Review, Pedestal Magazine, West Trade Review, Pinyon, San Pedro River Review, North of Oxford, and Cardinal Sins. He lives in Myrtle Beach, where he serves as co-coordinator of The Litchfield Tea & Poetry Series.
