Justice Kennedy retired

farewell pious blowhard

from the dark collective

grief of half of us I stole

one long hour to think

despair is a privilege

we can’t afford but really

a few of us totally can

which is of course precisely

what creates the vacuum

this continual impervious

self-satisfied classic righteous

American malice can gleefully

pour into to crush

everything especially

our clever laments

today all my rich white

friends are talking again

about leaving for houses

they have not yet decided

to purchase over the border

it’s grotesque yet I too

admit when we finally

realized our son who

remembers every song

would not speak like

all the others

moving deeper into

places we could not go

we without hesitation

in fear with our money

went over whatever

we thought separated us

from a solution to this

and also other problems

most don’t even get to name

today in my hybrid

I too see the blue tarps

under the freeway as I drive

him to another appointment

he has the softest skin

and is never frantic

he loves when the trucks get

so dangerously close

and sings the same song

I taught him years ago

when I was in despair

about how to be happy

it’s been so much better

but still I walk around

as if something that cannot

fail protects everything I need

and only now can I ask

what dream was I born into

and what will happen

when the dreamer wakes

From Father’s Day (Copper Canyon Press, 2019). Copyright © 2019 Matthew Zapruder. Reprinted with the permission of the poet.

one year, i carried the blues around

like a baby. sure, my coffee mugs cupped

amethysts :: water gushed, rose-tinted

and -scented, from the faucets at my touch ::

the air orange with butterflies that never

left me. meanwhile, indigo held fast

to my toes :: lapis lapped my fingertips ::

and a hue the shade of mermaid scales

bolted through my hair like lightning.

my eyelids drooped, fell, heavy with sky.

that year i carried the blues around

left me mean :: while indigo held fast,

the daily news tattooed azure to my back. 

true, festivals of lilies buoyed me. but what 

good could white do? the blues grow like

shadows in late sun :: stretch  creep  run.

Copyright © 2019 by Evie Shockley. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 12, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.