At least she’s pretending to be,
in sisterly solidarity.
It’s not a joke, but the whole
world’s taking it badly. Meanwhile
I sit here pretending to be a flame
in a thrown bottle. I pretend
that curved horns grow out of my ears
when I hear of injustices. And
meanwhile like the faint cigar
lights of the darkened
lounges where world leaders
fraternize, the moon’s light glows
then fades. Her labor proves to be,
well, laborious. Mine was too,
although this poem burst forth
from my brain like a boot
or a god: furious.
Copyright © 2023 by Gail Wronsky. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 24, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.