Every time I see something beautiful
I pause. It’s gotten me into trouble before
-- the world is not a safe place
for people who pause in the middle
of streets to admire the way light plays off a puddle
or the honest desperation of a **** growing out a crack in the sidewalk.

We read poems in class today.
We talked about how they are a balm for the soul,
how they put into words the human experience,
how they touch the depths of despair and
                                           the heights of joy.

We did not analyze
                       define
                   compare
                    contrast
                        argue
              or interpret

                                        in light of critical theory.
Only in light of our souls and experiences.

We let words speak to us,
the way their writers intended.

sometimes I want to scream,
to open my throat and let raw, audial emotion pour out of my mouth

in unlikely and inappropriate places:

I want to be louder than the grate of iron against iron on the metro,
than the sharp whine of subway against tracks
than the hum of electricity
and the noise that makes up this city
and the noise that makes up the world.
I want to be louder than the noises that reverberate from other people's lives,
and louder than bureaucracy,
and louder than the din of policies and senseless complaints.

but then I think about the summer lockdown,
the humidity of western Tennessee,
the chorus of cicadas in the forests,
devoid of human noise and interaction.

I think about the luna moth I found on my doorstep one morning,
Sheltered from sun, cicada, and wasp.
They stand for luck, you know, and all good fortune.

They don't have mouths.

Light shines off the lines of old paint brush strokes on smudged oil paint,
Vintage bubbles, worn from countless fingers, notebooks, pencils,
the accruements of learning, teaching, and thinking.
I can imagine the hands that painted these surfaces,
These old desks, missing drawers, staggered six feet from each other,
Social distanced under the gaze of outdated television screens,
Confined within these walls, peeling paint, under stained ceiling tiles.
Those hands were tired, they held the brush with a practiced hand that wasn't dried out from hand sanitizer,
They spilt paint on the floor, left stains, let paint run down the sides of the desks -
Those trails still stay in certain light, they gleam from the shadows,
Not visible to the Zoom attendants.