for Brittany Watts
Anita Durkin
In a throat like a needle,
Air is vibration is delicate trills
Absorbed in earth. And the men whistle
Few notes of the song, the sign
They can breathe, make a pet
Of the warning. I write the present
As if canaries weren’t long replaced
With machines. But in the news
Three times in a month, I read
Canaries in a coal mine: protestors,
Poets, a Black woman, jailed
For violating laws not more
Than words. One against hanging
You are killing yourselves on a fence
Above the freeway. One against fomenting
Rebellion by metaphor or deed.
One against passing a fetus
On a toilet, where, if the lungs could fill,
They would drown. On a screen, a phone,
The three become birds who sing
So men live. But a canary doesn’t
Sound alarms. The music is a question:
Where are you, my others? My mate?
Even miles below any hope
Of sky, like a woman, they sing.
The phrase repeats. Where are you?
A measure of breath. My mate?
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