Poems of Persistence, Solidarity, and Refuge – Lesléa Newman

We are each other's harvest; we are each other's business; we are each other's magnitude and bond.  ― Gwendolyn Brooks  

As we journey through political, economic, and global health crises, we turn to poetry to share truths that unearth underlying causes, illuminate impacts, and insist on transformative change. For many of us, today’s challenges are not new. The struggle of isolation, economic insecurity, inadequate medical care, deadly institutionalized negligence, governmental decisions that put Black, Brown, Indigenous, Asian, disabled, sick, and other structurally precarious people at greater risk are not new. Today, many more people are experiencing the vulnerability of these unrelenting issues. We recognize this opportunity for a heightened awareness of how our very survival depends on one another.

Poetry can help keep the flame of resilience, solidarity, and resistance alive in us. It can help us process and move through grief, anger, loneliness. Poetry can be a comfort when the most necessary actions are to rest and recover. It can remind us of what’s at stake, that our lives and legacy are worth the fight. As cultural workers, we know that culture shapes our political and social imagination at a foundational level. As poets, we can use poetry to map what is, what has been, and possibly, the way forward, including the reasons not to return to what does not honor and protect our lives, our communities, and our planet.

We asked poets to give us the words they chant to get out of bed, to raise their fists, to encourage their kin, to remind us, as this crisis does, that “we are each other’s business; we are each other’s magnitude and bond.” To read all of these poems, visit Split This Rock’s website.

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Thirteen Ways of Looking at Life Before the Virus
By Lesléa Newman

I.
I remember shaking hands:

damp, sweaty hands and dry, scratchy hands,
bone-crushing handshakes and dead-fish handshakes,
two-handed handshakes, my hand sandwiched
between a pair of big beefy palms.
I remember hairy hands and freckled hands,
young smooth hands and old wrinkled hands,
red polished fingernails and bitten jagged fingernails,
stained hands of hairdressers who had spent all day dying,
dirty hands of gardeners who dug down deep into the good earth.

II.
Thousands of years ago, a man stuck out his right hand
to show a stranger he had no weapon.
The stranger took his hand and shook it
to make sure he had nothing up his sleeve.
And that is how it began.

III.

I remember sharing a bucket
of greasy popcorn with a boy
at the movies
(though I no longer remember
the boy or the movie)
the thrill of our hands
accidentally on purpose
brushing each other in the dark.

IV.

I remember my best girlfriend

and I facing each other to shriek,

“Miss Mary…..Mack! Mack! Mack!”

and the loud satisfying smack!

as our four palms slapped.

V.

I remember high fives

and how we’d laugh when we missed

and then do a do-over.

VI.

I remember the elegant turn

of shiny brass doorknobs

cool to the touch.

VII.

I remember my mother’s hands

tied to the railings of her hospital bed

and how I untied them

when the nurse wasn’t looking

and held them in my lap.

VIII.

I remember holding my father’s hand

how the big college ring he wore

rubbed against my birthstone ring

and irritated my pinky

but I never pulled away.

IX.

I remember the joy of offering

my index finger to a new baby

who wrapped it in her fist

as we gazed at each other in wonder.

X.

I remember tapping a stranger

on the shoulder and saying,

“Your tag is showing.

Do you mind if I tuck it in?”

She didn’t mind. I tucked it in.

XI.

I remember salad bars and hot bars.

I remember saying, “Want a bite?”

and offering a forkful

of food from my plate.

I remember, asking, “Can I have a sip?”

and placing my lips

on the edge of your cold frosty glass.

XII.

I remember passing around the Kiddush cup,

each of us taking a small sip of wine.

I remember passing around the challah,

each of us ripping off a big yeasty hunk.

I remember picking up a serving spoon

someone had just put down

without giving it a second thought.

XIII.

I remember sitting with a mourner

at a funeral, not saying a word,

simply taking her hand.

Split This Rock · Lesléa Newman Thirteen Ways Of Looking At Life Before The Virus Audio

Listen as Lesléa Newman reads "Thirteen Ways of Looking at Life Before the Virus."

Poems of Persistence, Solidarity, and Refuge – Cheyenne Marcelus

We are each other's harvest; we are each other's business; we are each other's magnitude and bond.  ― Gwendolyn Brooks  

As we journey through political, economic, and global health crises, we turn to poetry to share truths that unearth underlying causes, illuminate impacts, and insist on transformative change. For many of us, today’s challenges are not new. The struggle of isolation, economic insecurity, inadequate medical care, deadly institutionalized negligence, governmental decisions that put Black, Brown, Indigenous, Asian, disabled, sick, and other structurally precarious people at greater risk are not new. Today, many more people are experiencing the vulnerability of these unrelenting issues. We recognize this opportunity for a heightened awareness of how our very survival depends on one another.

Poetry can help keep the flame of resilience, solidarity, and resistance alive in us. It can help us process and move through grief, anger, loneliness. Poetry can be a comfort when the most necessary actions are to rest and recover. It can remind us of what’s at stake, that our lives and legacy are worth the fight. As cultural workers, we know that culture shapes our political and social imagination at a foundational level. As poets, we can use poetry to map what is, what has been, and possibly, the way forward, including the reasons not to return to what does not honor and protect our lives, our communities, and our planet.

We asked poets to give us the words they chant to get out of bed, to raise their fists, to encourage their kin, to remind us, as this crisis does, that “we are each other’s business; we are each other’s magnitude and bond.” To read all of these poems, visit Split This Rock’s website.

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Content Advisory: suicide-related language

Opening the Space
By Cheyenne Marcelus

I bruised my shins and scraped my elbows trying to dance in this tight space;

I bruised my forehead on the ceiling fan when I tried to fly;

I slit my wrist on the door trying to escape;

I carpet burned my knees praying for deliverance.

Every break in my skin served

as a reminder that I was just

too big.

There was no room to toss and turn in my sleep;

I lay awake rubbing my fingertips against the ceiling,

it was low enough to touch.

I thought I'd hurt myself if I ever

stood tall.

But I grew tired of slouching.

So I took a sledgehammer to the walls

and opened the space;

I opened a window and let the light in;

I broke out,

I read,

I traveled,

I danced wildly across the continents

and prayed in tongues.

I left home

and came back without conventions;

A tight grip on loose morals,

forsaking traditions.

Arms stretched so wide

I put pressure on the walls,

opening the space that confined me.

Every break in my skin eventually closed,

opening me up to the universe.

Split This Rock · Cheyenne Marcelus_Opening the Space_Audio

Listen as Cheyenne Marcelus reads "Opening the Space."

Previously published in the self-published poetry collection Good Me: A Poetic Journey to Self-Acceptance and Self-Preservation.

Poems of Persistence, Solidarity, and Refuge – Alex Carrigan

We are each other's harvest; we are each other's business; we are each other's magnitude and bond.  ― Gwendolyn Brooks  

As we journey through political, economic, and global health crises, we turn to poetry to share truths that unearth underlying causes, illuminate impacts, and insist on transformative change. For many of us, today’s challenges are not new. The struggle of isolation, economic insecurity, inadequate medical care, deadly institutionalized negligence, governmental decisions that put Black, Brown, Indigenous, Asian, disabled, sick, and other structurally precarious people at greater risk are not new. Today, many more people are experiencing the vulnerability of these unrelenting issues. We recognize this opportunity for a heightened awareness of how our very survival depends on one another.

Poetry can help keep the flame of resilience, solidarity, and resistance alive in us. It can help us process and move through grief, anger, loneliness. Poetry can be a comfort when the most necessary actions are to rest and recover. It can remind us of what’s at stake, that our lives and legacy are worth the fight. As cultural workers, we know that culture shapes our political and social imagination at a foundational level. As poets, we can use poetry to map what is, what has been, and possibly, the way forward, including the reasons not to return to what does not honor and protect our lives, our communities, and our planet.

We asked poets to give us the words they chant to get out of bed, to raise their fists, to encourage their kin, to remind us, as this crisis does, that “we are each other’s business; we are each other’s magnitude and bond.” To read all of these poems, visit Split This Rock’s website.

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Furlough

By Alex Carrigan

“Furlough” is the kind way to give

someone the illusion of freedom.
To let them think they can cut
through the musk
and refresh themselves.

“Furlough” is the cruel way to let
someone think they can breathe deeply.
For them to think they have
some relief from the odor,
the pungent weight of their world.

“Furlough” is the easy way to make
someone believe it’s temporary.
That they can use lemon-scented polish
to cover the stagnation
embedded in their furniture.

“Furlough” is the difficult way to allow
someone to think that,
beyond the sliding doors,
there’s familiar scents
within their permitted range.

“Furlough” is false hope.
You are still stuck inside, the
glass just looks cleaner.

Split This Rock · Alex Carrigan_Furlough_Audio

Listen as Alex Carrigan reads "Furlough."

Poems of Persistence, Solidarity, and Refuge – Jessica A. Sanchez

We are each other's harvest; we are each other's business; we are each other's magnitude and bond.  ― Gwendolyn Brooks  

As we journey through political, economic, and global health crises, we turn to poetry to share truths that unearth underlying causes, illuminate impacts, and insist on transformative change. For many of us, today’s challenges are not new. The struggle of isolation, economic insecurity, inadequate medical care, deadly institutionalized negligence, governmental decisions that put Black, Brown, Indigenous, Asian, disabled, sick, and other structurally precarious people at greater risk are not new. Today, many more people are experiencing the vulnerability of these unrelenting issues. We recognize this opportunity for a heightened awareness of how our very survival depends on one another.

Poetry can help keep the flame of resilience, solidarity, and resistance alive in us. It can help us process and move through grief, anger, loneliness. Poetry can be a comfort when the most necessary actions are to rest and recover. It can remind us of what’s at stake, that our lives and legacy are worth the fight. As cultural workers, we know that culture shapes our political and social imagination at a foundational level. As poets, we can use poetry to map what is, what has been, and possibly, the way forward, including the reasons not to return to what does not honor and protect our lives, our communities, and our planet.

We asked poets to give us the words they chant to get out of bed, to raise their fists, to encourage their kin, to remind us, as this crisis does, that “we are each other’s business; we are each other’s magnitude and bond.” To read all of these poems, visit Split This Rock’s website.

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Content Advisory: Reference to Dying

Covid-19
By Jessica A. Sanchez

I don't pause for tears
     Beyond this stained mask

I persist

In the spring
     Where the virus blooms

You see deciduous wisteria's
     My purple gloved hands

You see an endless river
     Tears in my eyes

In this silence where the words gather
     You shed your leaves

I pause for your heartbeat

     You perish in the new light of summer

Listen as Jessica A. Sanchez reads "Covid-19."