by Jane Rosenberg LaForge
We waited. For someone to save us—
A lawyer who emerged from an onslaught
of documents to find that smoking diamond
of indisputable scandal, the hot and hard
evidence fresh from the seismic forces
that will eventually implicate everyone
and pull the red edifice permanently
beneath the surface. We waited on
a clutch of senators as if they were
blackbirds, screaming with thirst, as
the temperature rose and the dough
hardened around their bellies and necks,
their vision fit to burst. Perhaps there was
a philanthropist, a banker or some titan
of industry who had yet to offend us, who
could provide a sweeping indictment of
the king’s fiscal wardrobe and its hidden
curses. We waited for anyone outfitted like
the Statue of Liberty of Kafka’s imagination,
wielding not light toward our welcoming shore
but a scimitar pointed toward the heavens.
We waited for literature; for comedians,
professionals and amateurs in puffy animal
get-ups; for a plague of insects and amphibians
to get the job done before all other species were
sent to their doom, along with millions of humans.
We waited for science, geometric proofs, facts
of all genres; for sources and methods, common
sense or history to catch up with the velocity of
the carnage. Our children injected Botox
to preserve their tight and inchoate faces
because we had foreclosed on their youth
and they were keeping their options open
for a second childhood to be carried out free
of the king’s aegis. We waited for creams
and lotions, hair dye and bronzers, for their
chemical processes to reach their malignant
apexes. We waited for the madness to lift
as if a curtain made of the lead
we had allowed to adulterate our paint and seep
into our rivers; for bread and angels to nourish
the poor huddled among us, until the miracle
rebirth of women whom we had previously
torched for failing to dispense with the king
without our assistance, as if their ashes
and embers had always contained the directions
but we couldn’t be bothered to read the labels.
So we waited, and kept waiting, like mourners
afraid to share their allegiances, until we could
blame only ourselves, instead of the victims.
A lawyer who emerged from an onslaught
of documents to find that smoking diamond
of indisputable scandal, the hot and hard
evidence fresh from the seismic forces
that will eventually implicate everyone
and pull the red edifice permanently
beneath the surface. We waited on
a clutch of senators as if they were
blackbirds, screaming with thirst, as
the temperature rose and the dough
hardened around their bellies and necks,
their vision fit to burst. Perhaps there was
a philanthropist, a banker or some titan
of industry who had yet to offend us, who
could provide a sweeping indictment of
the king’s fiscal wardrobe and its hidden
curses. We waited for anyone outfitted like
the Statue of Liberty of Kafka’s imagination,
wielding not light toward our welcoming shore
but a scimitar pointed toward the heavens.
We waited for literature; for comedians,
professionals and amateurs in puffy animal
get-ups; for a plague of insects and amphibians
to get the job done before all other species were
sent to their doom, along with millions of humans.
We waited for science, geometric proofs, facts
of all genres; for sources and methods, common
sense or history to catch up with the velocity of
the carnage. Our children injected Botox
to preserve their tight and inchoate faces
because we had foreclosed on their youth
and they were keeping their options open
for a second childhood to be carried out free
of the king’s aegis. We waited for creams
and lotions, hair dye and bronzers, for their
chemical processes to reach their malignant
apexes. We waited for the madness to lift
as if a curtain made of the lead
we had allowed to adulterate our paint and seep
into our rivers; for bread and angels to nourish
the poor huddled among us, until the miracle
rebirth of women whom we had previously
torched for failing to dispense with the king
without our assistance, as if their ashes
and embers had always contained the directions
but we couldn’t be bothered to read the labels.
So we waited, and kept waiting, like mourners
afraid to share their allegiances, until we could
blame only ourselves, instead of the victims.
Jane Rosenberg LaForge is the author of a memoir, two novels, five full-length collections of poetry, and four chapbooks of poetry. Her poem "Overheard at the Sphere in Las Vegas During Dead and Co.'s Spring Run 2025" appeared in the The New Verse News on May 23, 2025.
