“I am not resigned.” –Edna Millay
Alarms make our lives—
The panic when startled by bad news.
What a rich pleasure to be merely sad;
To sit, and guess chords to the blues.
This alarm is too soft—my son will be late for school.
The wise who are lost in thought are often late,
But always late, the fool.
These alarms are too soft, too soft, to wake the dead.
Let’s make noise, instead.
Let’s revel, louder, louder, to wake
Those we loved, now gone,
Who loved—leaving us helpless in their wake—
Who loved, when they didn’t know what was going on.
The chord will not wake the dead.
The chord is the dead.
If there must be an alarm, blast it with audacity
So that, maybe, it will wake me.
I am quietly breathing, half-asleep, writing.
Alarms are in my poems. Thoughts are fighting.