7 years for us

by Sara Fitzpatrick Comito

7 years for poetry

for pumping in and out

the blood of the heart

for the exuberance

of being one among

many

the state crushes a peony

and the poet writes with that

new red ink. Subversion! to wrap

the bruise inside bolts of silk and

send it unfurling down the palace steps

see what moans there, what broken bird

within. The emperor can’t have it.

Cut out blindfolds and bring your boot

down on the naked cry. The stain upon

many others cannot be discerned.

Lock down the compound. Confiscate

all flares. Stuff the mouths with sweets

and shuffle off the men to their work.

We’ll show the world our synchronization.

It’s the damn Olympic pregame 7 days

a week. It’s time. From now on,

there will be no room for “tendencies.”

7 years for breathing

see the number bend like a crane

for bleeding

may it swoop, then fly

for every molecule

conspiring in vibration

against the restraints

hear the wings? they push the

air past your face

7 years for Zhu Yufu

it is a white bird. An absolute

kind of white. Something of

your dreams

7 years for us.

white, as freedom