I asked the world, if you are an ocean,
how come I can’t play piano? — it doesn’t seem fair.
My mother could play, and her mother. Quite well.
I understand, adore chords, harmony, single note gestures.
The same, swanky Homeland Security officer testifies. ICE. JFK
Airport, pulsing carotid artery, sweaty brow, the strip search, the X-ray revealed —
and we listen to phone conversations of Colombian drug lords,
cocaine stuffed in axles, picture frames, false crates, coat linings,
fake asses and breasts. When I leave for lunch break, cocaine
traces a line around boxes, pockets, planters —
I imagine you could hide it anywhere.
Another woman juror, we’ve become temporary friends, we eat
at the Brooklyn Bridge Diner, ham and Swiss, ask for extra water
and get it, quickly. I imagine there are places today, right now, where
this plastic glass of clear water would inspire kneeling and prayers,
sparkle like liquid diamond, no infections, diseases. I can trust the tap,
the arms of modern wealth — why am I not kneeling?
In between cases, I’m reading Levertov’s speech for a rally, Amherst, 1970 –
and I’m wondering how to “act towards revolution” (even though, I’ve heard it’s over);
how to be militant and still practice yoga, how to equalize my breath
and claim my generation of blogospheres, blackberries, texts –
I hate to text. So much time devoted to each letter, as if slow mo’,
learning sounds again…but maybe this is what needs to be done?
Finger out each word. Brush clean vibration, one note at a time.
homeland
accused
veins
revealed
maybe there is an infinitesimal rally,
this rise and fall of the sternum
the oceanic rhythm of one breath
yes — discord
yes — innocence exists
yes — guilt is an occurrence
yes — implication of my ham and Swiss
and — the Haitian immigrant who busses my table to send money home;
and — the Colombian young woman who traffics cocaine in her stomach
lining, that vulnerable layer of arteries and veins,
her life pending on customs, the party
of lawyers, rock stars, frat kids — whoever
is willing to lay down the green for a bump —
the innocence of her stomach.
Susan Brennan is poetry editor for Illuminated Ink (a feature of New York Spirit Magazine), the producer/host of Radio Poetique, and a contributor to Foreign Policy In Focus. Her poems have appeared widely.
