Today’s poem is part of a special launch schedule during National Poetry Month from April 1—30, 2024. I’ll be posting a new poem daily for 30 days, which will be sent out to all subscribers as a summary on April 30 and otherwise can be viewed for free in the archives here. Thank you for being here!
“VOLKSWAGEN BLUES”
A butterfly is a lingering thought disguised As a temporary shuttle of delight Mine’s hot-glue stuck to my ego Since I declared myself one in 10th grade English (That or a wolf- but nah, no soft-girl is a wolf, they said) Crimson-coloured, a raging 16, and trapped In a glass dome flitting under their gaze, Furiously beating about what I don’t know. Why not a cage, I wonder decades later Needing a poem to suggest riddle as psych test Because a cage has a lock which has a key Which means escape is not only possible but designed. A cruel man is still a god and A glass dome can only be broken. I used to draw poppy fields and when they asked why, We all said: “Freedom”. For all the people who fought for our freedom. When we wore poppies and we asked them why, They all said: “Freedom”. Meanwhile my father was born on the other Side of the world, a forgotten generation, A horrific spectacle of no consequence, still bleeding From the rape of Nanking. No metaphor, just say it: It’s the rape of Nanking. A cruel man is still god. My father only buys Volkswagens Because he can’t, he says he just can’t buy a Toyota or Honda Surely he must know about Nazis He says no one knows about Nanking. When I was a kid, I thought he must be exaggerating If it was so bad, why wasn’t anyone talking about it? My friends didn’t know about Nanking, But hey, it rhymes with your name, they said The one I shed at 20 because no one could pronounce it. One day 15 years and the internet later, I read, stunned into shell-shock. The end of the world happened six years Before he was born. Today I see beheaded babies in the news And white phosphorous like falling snow The beautiful hand of the devil, A canyon worm-holing around in my gut and I know A cruel man is still god. I’m on the other side of the world Because my father brought himself here He didn’t have the privilege Of beating around a glass dome. Now, no longer a child I know the taste of freedom Sitting in his third navy blue Volkswagen, The fires from last summer still in my throat. And my brother, who once said my dad was a hypocrite In crueler words, Is now on his second, Three kids growing like weeds In this haze of red white and blue.
P.S.
I pulled this one out of my drafts folder. Wrote it a few months ago after reading the news. I was too afraid of publishing it because it’s so different from what I usually write about, but there’s something that feels more urgent and alive in this than some of my other, more placid, poems, I think.