by Ron Riekki
“my typewriter istombstone”—Charles Bukowski,“8 count”for S. and H.
My friend texts:
It was great. But today I
got a terrible news from
Ukraine. My best best
friend was killed by
Russian soldiers. So, all
my good memories
about graduating just
disappeared
I call her. She says she
doesn’t want to talk.
I call her the next day,
she says she still doesn’t
want to talk. I don’t know
how to write a poem
right now. Another friend
calls. She was a refugee
from Iraq. Her house was
burned down there. She
says it’s hard to talk about,
that forever she’s felt
silenced. I feel the need to
write poetry. I cannot handle
history. I don’t know how
to cope other than through
poetry. I had a meeting
recently where I talked
about what happened
to us in the military.
I told the woman
sitting in front of me
that I couldn’t talk
about it for decades
I’d get aphasia. I
couldn’t speak. I’d
want to speak, but I
couldn’t speak. During
those decades, I wrote
poems. Not enough
people read poems.
Poems sometimes
are the silenced
trying to speak
when their voice
is being choked,
when their words
are being taken
by history.
Like now.
Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice (Michigan State University Press).