Listen to Cindy King read this poem.
Assume for decades
I haven’t suffered a cataclysmic,
life-altering event. A pregnancy, a loss,
an assault of any kind. The dog
in the raincoat is a global phenomenon,
an international incident, a cosmic,
seismic event. Doesn’t believe in anxiety,
Doesn’t believe in facial recognition software.
Assume I haven’t seen bulls swabbed
onto cave walls. Assume I haven’t tried the world’s
most poisonous fish. Assume I have crushed,
then failed to resuscitate, the scorpion in my bathtub.
(I’m that kind of person.)
Assume I haven’t burned an effigy of Renée Jeanne Falconetti.
Assume more than once I have sobbed in public places.
Of course, I’ve never painted a Pollock by numbers.
Many times have I never painted a Klein by the number
(the one corresponding with blue).
Never have I left a painting at your doorstep.
Never have I poured paint into your mouth.
Never have I died. Never, as a consequence, have I lived.
I’m sorry. No, I apologize. Someone told me
never to apologize for being late, but
to thank them, instead, for waiting.
Maybe now the neighboring countries
can live in peace and the dead can return
as starlings and gather in the evening sky.