Sound Now

Vincent Hostak

February 1, 2021

America, January 6, 2021

It’s a moment that calls for more than prayer

when the posture of the supplicant is no remedy.

It may clear my wits for what is next 

only while the white-hot minds of supremacists

burn now as much as they’re allowed.

It looks too much like mine as I hibernate.

Arms and legs attached already move, 

they gain the ground as they’re allowed

to ease across the passive barriers

we dreamed alone would hold.

I would love to believe in the long arc of justice alone.

This might quiet the squall so in the cabin I can sleep.

But it’s only a hatch board that slows the flood,

shields my eyes from the drowning on the lower deck.

As much, it dulls my witness—still the hull will burst.

Hate metastasizes quicker than such a cure can catch.

I cannot wait for history to make me blamed or blameless.

Sleeping passions turn out nothing but old songs.

Lives whole, just, even well-remembered, sound now.

Vincent Hostak is a poet, essayist, and advocate. Long a resident of Texas, he resides in the intersection of city and wilderness near Denver. His poetry is published in Sonder Midwest (#5), Tejascovido.com, the Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas, and Wild, Abandoned (the blog). His podcast on refugee resettlement & culture: https://anchor.fm/crossingsrefugees.