PETER GRANDBOIS

The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Peter Grandbois

Don’t tell me I’m dead

Don’t remove me from myself

or tell me to cut my hair
or let it fall to the ground after
don’t pull me from this panicked parenthesis
or tell me to put on sunscreen
or to watch my skin blister and burn
don’t push me from another mouth
or tell me to sleep beneath a burned out moon
or set out through wide-open plains
I know my lines are supposed to sit silent
and also be pleasing to the ear

and that poetry should count its syllables

the way Hollywood counts women over forty

But here’s the thing—I looked into the eyes
of the dying BLM protestor last night
and I bought everything I need to keep
the economy going, and I give every day
to the great god Apple, and I rode the drone
straight into the homes of children in the desert
and this is no island, and there is no way
for this poem to end except in death
and nothing is so low as to be nothing
and of course the end brings us back
to the beginning where I am waking
and we are waking, my brothers and
sisters are waking, and the death

I’m talking of is not the one you think