Gwendolyn Brooks: America in the Wintertime

in this moment of orangutans, wolves, and scavengers,

of high heat redesigning the north & south poles

and the wanderings of new tribes in limousines,

with the confirmations of liars, thieves, and get-over artists,

in the wilderness of pennsylvania avenue,

standing rock, misspelled executive orders

on yellow paper with crooked signatures.

where are the kind language makers among us?

at a time of extreme climate damage,

deciphering fake news, alternative truths, and me-ism

you saw the twenty-first century and left us

not on your own accord or permission.

you have fought and fought most of the twentieth century

creating an army of poets who learned

and loved language and stories

of complicated rivers, seas, and oceans.

where is the kind green nourishment of kale and wheatgrass?

you thought, wrote, and lived poetry,

knew that terror is also language based

on denial, first-ism, and rich cowards.

you were honey and yes to us,

never ran from Black as in bones, Africa,

blood and questioning yesterdays and tomorrows.

we never saw you dance but you had rhythm,

you were a warrior before the war,

creating earth language, uncommon signs and melodies,

and did not sing the songs of career slaves.

keenly aware of tubman, douglass, wells-barnett, du bois,

and the oversized consciousness and commitment of never-quit people

religiously taking note of the bloodlust enemies of kindness

we hear your last words:

     america

     if you see me as your enemy

     you have no

     friends.