Yoked to what? To whom?
Calibration. Checkmate.

Thunderous blowhard,
tiny tea kettle. Boom.

Bastion at the market,
flashlight mimicry.

Look at my phrase
making, batting eyes.

Whose hand do you hold?
Whose hand do you want?

Enough of this, ruiner.
What’s the gift of talk,

talk, talk. Where’re your
minions, battle stations.

Take out your troubled
photocopies and burn

the Pilgrim’s kiss. There’s only
one story. It always ends.

Copyright © 2018 by Ada Limón. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 28, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.

About this Poem

“The poem came out of a sort of commentary on the social media echo chamber but also serves as a reminder to myself that all art comes out of an honoring of death and what might live beyond the self.”
—Ada Limón