Symphony No. 7 in A Major, Op. 92
-after francine j. harris and with Eileen
The symphony was a straitjacket
I must’ve needed. Need being relative—
the organ pipes (silver) looked like missiles,
that bright and tipped. The blue floodlights,
too, made paintings on the columns
but not of children dying, which would be
more accurate. My seatmate had lain her
jacket on the seat that was mine, a way
of marking what is whose and when.
Everywhere was genocide exploitation
genocide. Nowhere was not. Let them
call us what they will, then. Most of my life
has been …
