The Poet on her young comrades
You will not all live through this. Death will take
you unexpectedly. Shot in a crowd
rushing police lines. And if I am allowed
by circumstance and age – my heart will break –
I’ll write a poem for each death. My friend
was special and is gone. That’s what we say
in every elegy. And then I may
incite some sort of violence at the end.
I’ll still write sonnets, and that little turn
in the last couplet will break people’s hearts
read at your funeral. And so it starts
the peoples’ angry rage. I’ll see them burn
your killers. Yet know, with a guilty sigh,
It was my verses sent you out to die.