And now we are carving mythology out
of unremembered time. The recurrent
dream about Jungleland isn’t about
tigers or Mabel or a roster of poorly
behaving men. We know memory,
like a trapped lion, must snack on
dry sandwiches to survive.
It would be nice to leave it alone,
the small lion to its tidy sandwich,
but here is the affliction
from stories better left unsaid:
the spectacle in the archive of harm,
the body left untouched for four hours,
of Flint and the shootings that no
longer receive another name.
We call a hundred mouths laughing
We call a thousand killing bodies
We are so far away
from it all, aren’t we?
The plastic jungle
and the crass crate.
Yet here we sit like the
mannequins of young schoolgirls
imagining something out of thin air
our tongues curling around no-nation—
no sudden movements to call our own.