Friday, November 22, 2019

November 22, 1963

Is dead. Is dead. How all
The radios sound the same.
That static is our seed.
Is dead. We heard. Again.
We peck at the words like bran
Strung on a string of air.
Is dead. Again. Is dead.
Too rhythmic for despair.
Our faces are all the same,
Learning to taste the word.
Lockjawed with awkwardness.
Is dead. We know. We heard.

--- Chana Faerstein


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