whose voice will be strong enough
to enunciate the dead.
I’m braver than droplets.
Brave as the tongue’s elegiac rose
laid on the grave’s black hill.
Brave as a whip taming pastoral clouds
in the century’s darkest storm.
Questions of space
lengthened by death
have always been unbearable.
Nothing compares to maskless faces
with backs walled into viral caves,
blinded by a dark so heavy, even bats
beg the stone to show them how to pray.
That’s when I come in.
That’s when I warn the light to
save us quick or never hear
the sound of bright again.