Enzo Silon Surin​

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American Testimony

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i wish i could write about bees and collapsed colonies &
about a young child frolicking through fields of withered
posies in search of something whole and tender, with their
head down & crying about the promise of all that is unseen.

i wish this could be a verse about extinction and preventing
lions & other wildcats from meeting the fate of a rifle’s aim
& about how a broken tooth will always remind us of Cecil,
whose murder caused a nation to hold its head down and cry.

i wish i were writing about a beached whale or a pack of sea
lions who mistook the sand for stardust or heavenly grounds
& how a village of strangers nursed & ushered them back to
the sea—watching, arm-on-shoulder, & heads down, crying.

i wish what is written was about a rare moth that once made
a dilapidated shack its home, and how it was spared minutes
before demolition, & how it was the man who built the shack
that discovered it, and how he held his head down and cried.

instead i am writing in hope that you will care about my early
demise, enough to be moved by how often i find myself on my
knees & wailing under a dilapidated sun and how your head is
often constantly held down so you don’t ever have to see me die.

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