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sanchopanzalit

Anachronism

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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