Gala
One evening the summer sun isn’t enough
We, poets from the South & West, in the US sense of the words,
and the East, in the global sense, walked through a blade of Vermont,
in sunglasses, in lace-up boots, in zigzag, in jeans, commenting on
a beauty so murderous and magical it emancipated
some of us hundreds of years ago, for us to hear, You should feel lucky
to be in this country. One of us looks out at the rows of yellow flowers
and says, Can you imagine arriving at land like this, thinking, How beautiful—
I’m going to take it? Which reminded me of another friend, this time in Paris,
looking around its gilded splendor to say, Look what Empire is capable of.
Which reminded me of another friend, this one from Paris, looking down
at Seoul from a gold observatory to say, It’s kind of ugly. & it felt as if he had said I am.
One evening of summer in Vermont,
we are beauty in sunglasses and embroidery and flower crown and plaid, cocktails,
our languages in our hands. Delicious & loud. We are at a gala
for writers. What does “gala” even mean, one of us asks,
to which another one says, I think it’s a kind of party, to which
the first one says, No, motherfucker, I want the etymology. & we flare in laughter.
Two years later I consult The Online Etymology Dictionary to see gala (n.)
1620s, “festive dress or attire” (obsolete), from French en gala,
perhaps from Old French gale “merriment,” from galer “rejoice, make merry” (see gallant).
See, gallant, in our festive red dresses and snapbacks and public merriment
and skins, razing through this country on the hayride, some of us standing
through the turbulence of it all, touching the berried shrubbery and August dirt,
indulging in a gala. See here, party of us, siblings—
what did we sing in our hot breath?
One evening, we looked up the sky and I asked about the man-given names
of its elements, Is it Andromeda? Is it Venus?
None of us knew shit. We asked anyway.
One evening we saw small wings
glittering over the same yellow flowers,
& knowing they were butterflies in hundreds to repopulate the land, sat astounded.
We had only days ourselves to fly
back to the South & the Midwest & the West, in the US sense of the words.
The summer sun went promptly. Fastidious with its red folds over the sky.
We lit the candles anyway.
We passed the bread. We passed the wine.
If the only world is a Hell with my siblings,
I thought, I should feel lucky to call this world home.
Brother,
Sister,
I am here.
I walk with you. I walk with you.
Note: The indented lines are borrowed and adapted from these poets, in order of appearance: Michael Torres, Paul Tran, Sebastián Hasani Páramo, Michael Shewmaker (couplet), Dustin Pearson.
***
Author photo courtesy of author
