“In the dark times
Will there also be singing?
Yes, there will also be singing.
About the dark times”
—Bertolt Brecht
You stand
on a stool, holding
a pink
microphone with both hands,
and
belch songs in three languages.
Behind
you, a 55-inch television
mumbles
natural disasters. I lower
the
volume. The newscaster is about to
say something
I don’t agree with. Are you
proud? You ask. Of course, I reply, requesting
a song
about sunshine. You are light
in dark
times.
Last
night, I caught myself saying,
and then, he killed
himself. I
wonder
who
died. You see, I keep thinking
about unbecoming.
I lie in bed,
walk
the streets, cook and eat meals,
shower,
water plants, and all the while
imagine
dissipating. I’m sick,
afraid to
say. In the afterlife,
where I
hope to still hear your voice,
will
there also be singing?
I doubt
it. I shake my head and claw
my toes
on the floor to rid of death
from my
mind, focus on your words.
The newscaster
is now talking about a war
she
refuses to call genocide, inflation,
celebrity
gossip. To be alive is to witness
your
joys. Here, we fold paper cranes, dance,
watch cartoons
on repeat, read books. Here,
I can walk
you to kindergarten, where,
yes,
there will also be singing.
The
microphone runs out
of
battery. You place it at your feet
and continue
to sing acapella. Outside,
the
heavy clouds begin to part. Within
me,
something also clears up,
subsides.
I open the window, let your
voice
drift through the blinds and stir
the cold,
empty street. I turn off the screen
as the
newscaster ends her report
about
the dark times.
Marc Perez is the author of Dayo (Brick Books, 2024) and the chapbook, Domus (Anstruther Press, 2025). He parents two curious children and enjoys wandering around the city with his camera.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
No comments:
Post a Comment