An Infinite Succession of Presents

A poem-essay prompted by a Howard Zinn quote

(This piece is something I wrote for a zine someone in the art collective I’m in put together this spring, but I wanted to share it here too, thinking about happiness and, say, authoritarianismecocidepatriarchycapitalismetc. Enjoy!)

The future is an infinite succession of presents and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory.

— Howard Zinn

Tracking the wax and wane of the moon in my body mind; following the sun through the sky; taco truck taco limes; wild strawberries bursting on my tongue one tiny berry at a time; (This is for everyone.) looking at bugs with kids; diving down into clean, clear water, arcing back up into sunlight and air; (Or something just as good.) smelling a child's hair as they fall asleep on my shoulder; walking barefoot through moss and sweet ferns; (They've told us the destruction of these things is inevitable.) uncommercialized thimbleberry zing; fabulous warrior packs of cousins descending from the dress-up bin; coasting through late night streets bike chain ticking; cherry blossom blizzards; (Do they come back from the stump fields unchanged?) the pop of a spark breaking the silence in a slow true campfire rumination; rain on the roof as I hold my beloved; (This is also the world they want to return to, but only for themselves.) dinners full of stories told and eaten; a glass of pure water downed in one long pull by the kitchen sink; a crowded table; washing a friend's dishes unasked; unlocked unworried doors; dance beats cracking open stuck hips; walking the night unafraid, saluting the rats and raccoons; chosen names; chosen selves; a theater of people laughing at once; giving directions to lost travelers; farmer's market picnic kid swirl; regulars and being one; greeting neighbors by the broccoli bin; sitting inside pulsing frog songs; looking down from the top of a tree; (Daily people know this sweetness.) conversations scribbling connections on the mad scientist chalkboard of my mind; walking all day and arriving somewhere new; the monkey comfort of picking fleas off my dog; speaking up; guitar like water; (Also called belonging.) hearing the stories of strangers; the snort of a deer pulling me back into the moral realm; moths; canvassing as witnessing; hearing a child practice the same three notes on a trumpet over and over from down the summer street; happy loud buses on the way home from protests; pushing pale seeds into loamy soil; crying in good arms; (Given up for domination.) escorting turtles and ducklings out of traffic; slow kisses; fast ones; milky tea; nettles with garlic; clothing swaps; grandaloose lovepots and other secret absurdities; mixing voices and languages and music coming in through apartment windows; (As if the sun rises only on private islands.) old tools in new uses; poems that open me like the dense starred sky; untroubled sleep; the deep down freshness, yes, this world. (This for everyone.)