New Poetry by Amalie Flynn

POLLINATE

When I dream about the words

They fall from the sky. Dropped

From planes that hover and the

Words are dropping and dropping.

In clusters. And again and. Again.

How the words are dropping. Like

Bombs.

 

I wake up my husband. Shake his

Shoulder. Our two children. How

I shake their shoulders and we go

Outside. To watch the words fall.

Stand feet bare on grass. And we

Look up. At a sky full of munition.

How it stretches as far as it goes.

The sky full of words falling. Falling

On us. Falling on this town.

 

And the letters bend and curl. How

The arc of the stems twist in the air.

Crotch and vertex. The descenders.

As the letters fall down. The letters

Of the words. This typography of

The words we use now. Hear now.

Here in America.

 

And the words are hitting. Hitting

Our house. How the children are

Covering their heads with hands.

With letters and syllables slapping

A roof. The word liberal. The word

Fascist. Hitting and again. Liberal

And fascist. How liberal fascist hits

Until the house is covered. A liberal

Fascist hanging. Closed bowl of the

Letter b split and hanging from a

Gutter. Or how merit-based falls.

Hits the ground. Making explosion

Craters in our backyard. How the

Word elitist floats. How there are

Elitists in the swimming pool.

 

Down the street. All over this town.

The word liar hangs from the trees.

Dud bombs that are quiet. Hanging

Like leaves. Or ready to detonate.

And the word white sprays down.

Pelts down. Followed by silence.

And then power. How the words

White and power fall down onto

This town.

 

A canister opens and releases the

Word globalist. How globalist hits

The synagogue. Hits the synagogue

And hits it and hits it again. Over the

Mosque words fall down. A fleet of

Terrorists attack a mosque. How

The words terrorist and ISIS and

Radical Islamic terrorism attack a

Mosque. Leaving holes in a wall

That faces Makkah.

 

And under the lights on a football

Field some men kneel. Their heads

Bowed. With the word ungrateful

Wrapping around their necks like

Snakes. Or other men. Kneeling

In a church. Who pray and use

Words like our manifest destiny

And this Christian nation.

 

Across the fields. Where berries

Grow. But no one comes to pick

Them. No one comes. Because

They are scared of ICE and the

Roundups. How the fields are

Littered with overripe berries

And land mines made out of

The word illegal and rapist or

Drug dealing murderer. And in

The lakes. In the rivers. Which

Are drying up. Where fish and

Bacteria die. In the warm ocean.

How the word fake floats.

 

Over neighborhoods where every

Day is a day of guns and bullets

And broken dead bodies. Over

The schools. The schools that

Have been lucky. Where there

Has not been a mass shooting.

Where a man with an assault rifle

Has not forced his way in and shot

All the children dead. Over these

Schools. And over the schools that

Were not lucky. How the words.

The words thoughts and prayers

Are falling down from the sky.

 

And in this driveway I am holding

My husband’s hand. Because his

Car is buried. Buried deep under

The word unpatriotic. And he is.

He is shaking his head in disbelief.

Saying how. How he loves this

Country. Went to war for it. How

He would go again and again or

How I tell him I know. Because

The words liberal elite gather

At my feet. A ring of socialists

Like land mines sunk into the

Ground.

 

And my youngest son. Who has

A disability. Who cannot vocalize

A lot of words. He is running under

The words as they fall from the sky.

And he is laughing. As if the words

Are fireflies. His hands flying up. Into

The air to catch them. Or how we

Are chasing after him. But he reaches

And grabs the words in his fist. And

I am still running. Calling to him or

Saying to him no and no. How those

Words are not for you. The words

Burden on the system which are

Caught in his hands like fireflies.

 

How I am peeling his hands open.

And my husband is saying please.

To our son. And give them to me.

Or our oldest son. How he is telling

His brother. Saying over and over.

How none of those words are true.

 

And I use my hands to dismantle it.

A phrase that is not. Not for him.

And I am jumbling all of the letters.

Sweeping some away. And making

New words. Words like bud or stem.

Things that grow.

 

And I make the word bee.

 

How I hand it to him. Hand him bee.

And I am kneeling in dirt next to him.

My son. Who is holding a bee. And

I am telling him about pollination.

How the bees are pollinators. How

They pollinate flowers and plants

And crops. And how we need them.

How our existence depends on the

Bees. Because without the bees

I say. Things would collapse. And

I reach my hand out. Touch his cheek.

And I say bee. How this word

The one that the world needs.

How this word is for you.

Liked it? Take a second to support Amalie Flynn on Patreon!

Amalie Flynn

Amalie Flynn is a poet and the author of WIFE AND WAR: THE MEMOIR (2013) and a collection of poetry blogs: SEPTEMBER ELEVENTH, WIFE AND WAR, and THE SUSTAINABILITY OF US. Flynn’s writing has appeared in THE NEW YORK TIMES, TIME, and THE HUFFINGTON POST and has received mention from THE NEW YORK TIMES and CNN. Currently she is working on a poetic eco-memoir project – about land, language, the rights of the most vulnerable among us, and the sustainability of it all – and a poetic fiction project – about guns in America. Flynn has a BA in English/Studio Arts, an MFA in Creative Writing, and a PhD in Humanities. Flynn lives in Rhode Island with her husband and their two children. She is interested in politics and narrative and how they – and us – are intertwined.

1 Comment

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>