To David Lehman
By Waverly Vernon
David,
you say poetry is not political,
as if Gaza is a metaphor
and not a place where children
fold themselves into rubble.
On my television,
the anchors call it a war.
I count the seconds between bombs.
Your voice is nowhere in the smoke.
You are busy arranging flowers.
I want to be like those poets
who care about the moon.
But every time I look up,
I hear sirens
through someone else’s ceiling.
David,
you call it complicated.
The screen shows
a father
carrying half his son.
Complicated is your word for silence.
Complicated is how you hide your hands.
I know I am American because
I can mute the channel
and make the massacre vanish.
When I turn off the TV
someone still dies.
Metaphors about peace
are for poets who mistake
neutrality
for virtue.
—I do not write peace.
I write children
throwing stones at tanks,
seconds before
they become numbers
you will never name.
David—
the flowers you love
are growing in Gaza.
They grow in craters.
They will not forgive you.
Waverly Vernon (they/them) is a writer and interdisciplinary artist studying at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, focusing on writing and ceramics. Their work explores femininity, sexuality, resilience, religious deprogramming, and trauma, transforming personal experience into connection and dialogue. Their poetry appears in Moonstone Arts Center, WIA Magazine, Wildscape Literary Journal, Assignment Literary Magazine, Creation Magazine, and Arcana Poetry Press.
Photo by Mohammed Ibrahim on Unsplash.
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