By Jan Wiezorek
PROMPT—No one noticed ...
On a rooftop, an American robin,
state bird of Michigan, commands
his post, ordering elements, causing
worms to hang and sway in his beak
—no, not a Mexican eagle, with snake,
but we move nonetheless, banners
of words swaying, embossing hearts,
showing our worn thesaurus what poor
can mean, as reign changing us, worms
inside, swaying like men—these wait
at mother’s door—wait for a sandwich
she makes for them, never invited in,
but swaying on the stoop for a sandwich,
swaying the flat blocks of frame houses,
flat blocks of hearts—but I’ve never gone
without, migrant-farm workers, marching
for something better—even a place to go
to the bathroom—as if a sandwich is all
that will do upon the land, as vast as our
valleys—so, how do you march hundreds
of miles—how does your song fill fields—
—how do you dream of manhood, or
make change real as the sky—how many
more steps, robin and eagle, how many.
I count steps every day.
Jan Wiezorek's debut poetry chapbook, Forests of Woundedness, is forthcoming this fall from Seven Kitchens Press. Wiezorek’s poetry appears, or is forthcoming, in The London Magazine, The Westchester Review, Lucky Jefferson, The Broadkill Review, LEON Literary Review, and elsewhere. He taught writing at St. Augustine College, Chicago, and authored the teachers’ ebook Awesome Art Projects That Spark Super Writing (Scholastic, 2011). Wiezorek’s poetry has been awarded by the Poetry Society of Michigan. He writes from Buchanan, Michigan.
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