Locked in the beauty of the pearl, far from frail,
these people who claim to love us still
they don’t give up much, do they, sealed? To eradicate class—
the looking glass of it, the complex glare: “Let me introduce
xxx, impoverished poet.” Winter let up
like a terrible religion. In its wake, a politics came,
profane. You were on a train
from Philly to Mass. Winter let up like bands and globes
and globules and I could feel the trade ships
in my bloodstream, the blood that made me,
and I wanted to kill it
really bad like a war path. They said my poems
were a mess. Well, if that’s the case, then, go ahead.
Strike one match and the mansion will go up in its own ash,
in its obsession with accumulation against the glint of trees.
Copyright © 2016 by Sandra Simonds. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 3, 2016, by the Academy of American Poets.