Listen, I promise you, I have
no stake in this world. No
political affiliations unless
love is a political tool, unless
my body is a political tool,
unless my comrades are a
political tool. I have no
high stake in this world, no
children to want to leave
a better world to, nothing
but fucking & bookmaking
that is my legacy & it is as
undeniable as smoke; yet
may disappear like it too. I
turn on the news & not
owning pearls, I clutch my
fancy juicer to my chest
I gather around me my art
& my mirrors, my plants &
my price of the ticket—a bible.
I think they’re coming for
me. For it. For all my
million little nothings they
consider stakes in this world.
I got no gun, I got no pickup
I got no desire to burn the
world; I don’t own the world
I own stand mixers & an
eggplant colored Le Creuset
a tiny apartment with bad pipes
& creaking floors. I have
no stakes. I barely got health,
I barely got muscle. I want
a garden near an ocean
that won’t eventually swallow
me. I want my only job to be this:
clawing at a white page until Black
appears. & suddenly, in that moment
I got something—
Copyright © 2025 by Yesenia Montilla. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 7, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
what do I wear to deliver my book
into the world
as it is today
monologued by a woman
a former interrogator and torturer
what would she wear
to the inauguration ceremony
of a museum
of her own imagination on full display
a celebration of the practice
not carried out by one regime, but an enterprise
global and interdisciplinary
stretched out throughout histories
the banality of evil on full display
men in full armor genociding
men in suits smiling to the cameras
and telling journalists they are looking into it
what a torturer wears to a press conference
proud of her alliances
her feminist motto
making history
the madam is “redefining the power suit,” the headline says
her Chucks saw a 4500% increase in online interests
how much does the madam’s suit from Chloé cost?
she says she fully supports
the men behind the ashes and the debris and the skeletons
her closet website lists it all—the suits, the jewelry, the shoes, the outerwear, the accessories, the
casual wear, the formal wear, the home wear
there is a section for the recently identified and for the recently worn
the madam says Iran is the number one enemy
the child, her teeth broken, her hair disheveled, carries her sister on her back
says of course she’s tired
says her sister’s leg is hurt
she will carry her sister
the road stretches behind them and in front of them
the man takes the children to his car, gives them a ride
the decorations of death have risen in many front yards
plastic skeletons and gravestones
the hollowed-out eyes
the desire for horror
store bought and cheap
what are the tax percentages on the receipts?
other children hug the dogs
hold on to
the necessary embrace
in a shelter that cannot shelter
the dogs stare at the camera
in shock, their eyes cannot even blink
staring into
he cares for the cats
asks us to be kind to animals
the mother who mothered him into mothering the animals was killed
his daughter was born
he feeds the cats, washes the eyes, heals the wounds
a child was once upon a time running on another stretch of road, all naked
the girl in the picture
the terror of war
the madam wants to look “finished but not overtly fabulous.”
what to wear to the event
launching the book that exposes the complicity
of the scholars and the feminists and the experts and the psychologists and the researchers
of another madam
shattering the glass ceiling optimizing the cleansing
writing the words for land acknowledgements
how do the words rise off the page
to be voiced through a mouth
that welcomes the killing
of the gray horse stuck in the rubble
of the houses
of the humans targeted
a blue sky behind her
in her undefeated resistance of hope and life
our wizard reminds us that no occupation lasts forever
Copyright © 2025 by Poupeh Missaghi. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on February 26, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind happiness not always being so very much fun if you don’t mind a touch of hell now and then just when everything is fine because even in heaven they don’t sing all the time The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind some people dying all the time or maybe only starving some of the time which isn’t half so bad if it isn’t you Oh the world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t much mind a few dead minds in the higher places or a bomb or two now and then in your upturned faces or such other improprieties as our Name Brand society is prey to with its men of distinction and its men of extinction and its priests and other patrolmen and its various segregations and congressional investigations and other constipations that our fool flesh is heir to Yes the world is the best place of all for a lot of such things as making the fun scene and making the love scene and making the sad scene and singing low songs of having inspirations and walking around looking at everything and smelling flowers and goosing statues and even thinking and kissing people and making babies and wearing pants and waving hats and dancing and going swimming in rivers on picnics in the middle of the summer and just generally ‘living it up’ Yes but then right in the middle of it comes the smiling mortician
From A Coney Island of the Mind, copyright © 1955 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
I am required to resist the distractions and the easy wine
that facilitates the annihilation of the other
and their daily bread
To resist dabbling in the spoils, especially
because the world has been hard.
To do away with the thought
that somehow I am owed
To carry the weight in everything we do,
that there is nothing left to normalize
and we have given up any right to peace
and contentment every time we pay the tax
that allows for our lives,
our own lives to consider
only our own lives
Copyright © 2025 by Raquel Gutiérrez. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on February 19, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.