We’re living through a period of momentous upheaval in the United States, walking through the gates of history. This is the second installment of my Poetry of Witness series, by which I seek to chronicle the unique promise, perils, and potentials of this time.

$750

9.28.20

Give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s,

they said, so that’s what we did—

a buck over minimum

and happy to have it, I remember,

that job in the café where

I was working when the Twin Towers fell,

perfecting the over easy,

the splash of vinegar in the roiling boil.

Back then every paycheck

was a mystery to me, the way

so much of what little I made

had disappeared by the time

I was paid.

These days,

the tax I pay comes to four figures each quarter

while for the last fifteen years, the president

has paid only twice, the last time a total of

$750. It figures, doesn’t it,

that Caesar’s Palace is the sort of

place where we’re playing,

flushing away our cash

for the greater good

of Nero’s golden thrones.

I mean,

you have to hand it to him—

your money or your life

or, both, I suppose,

if your labor is deemed essential

but you yourself are not.

—

The Invitation

10.12.20

 

In the in between we hold a seat for hope

but set a place at the table for

intuition disguised as fear

and vain imaginings of the status quo

as preferable to

the change that hurts and heals. One day I know,

we will find ourselves on the other side

of all of this—one day we’ll look up

and realize that a great change has come

in a series of

extremely minor moves,

that it wasn’t the way we

elected our leaders but the way we ourselves

began to lead. Today

I’m writing letters, researching ballot measures,

writing poetry, voting by mail.

Nothing big.

Nothing small.

—

Savage

10.15.20

 

Symbolic maybe but physical

in fact, the monument

to the “heroes who have fallen

in the various battles with

___________ Indians

in the territory of New Mexico,”

which stood for two hundred years

in the plaza of old Santa Fe

 

today

has fallen

 

today, in truth of fact,

people have seized the power

to change not just the present and the future

but the past.

 

No matter how long that lie stood

in plain sight among us,

as families gathered in the evenings

as the violinist played her sweet lament

as the man who takes photographs of old churches

sold them to tourists

 

those ______________ Indians

gathered at the Palace of the Governors

to sell their fine handcrafts

did not relent, even after they were forced

to roll up their blankets, the white numbers of their spots

still clear on the bricks out front

 

even as their elders

were cut down by Covid,

as the white settlers spread

their diseases like blankets over the earth.

 

A _____________ act, in truth of fact

and though it’s just a word someone

painstakingly chipped away, some time ago now,

its erasure served to remind us all

of the resistance required, the patience,

to topple such a tall lie, of such long standing

and reclaim the heart of the commons,

waiting now its

next testament.