Portside

Not Brave, Not Free

By Lee Rossi

                        after Tony Hoagland

All morning some virus has been conducting

military exercises in my throat—

napalm, aerial bombardment, artillery.

Bombing the dam was the last straw.

“You sound sick,” my wife says

solicitously. “No I don’t,” I insist,

struck by the uncharacteristic rumble

of my vocal chords, the basso profundo

echoing in my ear bones. “I sound sexy.”

I wonder if my penchant for lying

to myself is a personal peccadillo,

or something hard-wired into all of us.

I know that, I know that, says the kid

in the back row, face red as a stop sign,

hand waving, high in the air.

I ignore him. After all, I’m the teacher

in this little classroom, and even though I too

know the answer, I need to pretend I don’t.

Like those balloon faces floating on my TV,

asking if, after the latest shooting, the President

will finally bring the nation together.

They know the answer, but their investment

in our collective stupidity is building interest

in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands.

Meanwhile California redwoods,

the few survivors, are in emergency conclave.

“Where’s the fog?” they want to know. I know,

but have no way of telling them.

Lee Rossi is a winner of the Jack Grapes Poetry Prize and the Steve Kowit Prize. His latest book is Darwin’s Garden, from Moon Tide Press.  Individual poems have appeared in The Southwest Review, Rattle, Spillway, The Chiron Review, The Southern Review  and many other venues.  He is a member of the National Book Critics Circle and a Contributing Editor to Poetry Flash. A new book Say Anything will appear later this year.