At the Door of Integration, I Turned Around
Louder still from the choir
of the Black Madonna, the treble line
beat blue with the drumming haunts
of incalculable betrayal, too deviant
a lie to unbraid. Even at my dreary ends,
the lasts of me spread across 3000 seasons,
I still got a bell built for humming, that hymn of
repetition an infinite note to God. You think
I worry about beauty? By design,
I come back twice. Undead
imperium, the only idols I’ve got left
can’t be seen. In a good
final silence, they ask me
how I’d like to return. If I’d like to return.
I stay knowing the depth of the vessel belly,
the ripe scent of flesh sniping
at the soft of my eyes, the melon seed
wedged in my tooth like a clove. I say yes,
say, send me back
to this very animus, this
endless fiction. Yes. I would rather be ugly
than forget.
Your support makes stories like this possible
From illegal war on Iran to an inhumane fuel blockade of Cuba, from AI weapons to crypto corruption, this is a time of staggering chaos, cruelty, and violence.
Unlike other publications that parrot the views of authoritarians, billionaires, and corporations, The Nation publishes stories that hold the powerful to account and center the communities too often denied a voice in the national media—stories like the one you’ve just read.
Each day, our journalism cuts through lies and distortions, contextualizes the developments reshaping politics around the globe, and advances progressive ideas that oxygenate our movements and instigate change in the halls of power.
This independent journalism is only possible with the support of our readers. If you want to see more urgent coverage like this, please donate to The Nation today.
