And we: recite: do the labor of hallucinating at dead plants high, high above ground
Words of old, dead men float before us and I
fold sonnets into little square handkerchiefs
Trying to wipe your tears away from:
Walking up and down the mud road to school, escaping
your mom who was trafficked, your dad, a drunkard,
or any other thing.
A yellow sparrow sings, witnessing your trial, crossing
a slow lift from the swamp, a steep slippery steel string.
And we: recite: I shall do meaningful things:
Dancing to the silent music
Listening to nonexistent voices faraway, as we proceed into the night
—or to your home, one day,
Our presence as your blessing, asking, introducing:
We have come here to teach you. We, volunteered!
A huge sacrifice. What is a “dream”? You ask
What is the meaning, of, actually, anything?
My mother told me to marry soon, my father told me to quit school.
Hush hush. Some escapism for the both of us:
Listen to some poetry, some art, some literature
a mid-air mirror that will shatter as soon as we leave.
And we: recite: that, yes, life is poetic
Why shouldn’t it be?
After many years, or tomorrow, we will know
that this was the worst kind of dystopian novel.