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In a white car‚ while
wearing a white gown‚ over
bridges and mountains‚ down
in springtime‚ or
the ocean’s frozen over.
No. A beast with a tail made of weather
knocking a third of the stars out of heaven.
A storm in the heart
of every morning.
Despite the diagnosis.
With no regard for the prognosis.
A prayer whispered
in a roadside chapel
as a fire truck wails by:
that fire truck idling
at the center of the fire.
Like a hummingbird wrapped up
in a bright silk scarf. Tightly. Its
tiny shroud. Little storm. Still alive.
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The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.
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