people believed what
other people said and smiled
with rock-solid certainty,
though it was clear
that people often believed
people who knew almost
nothing about what
they knew, but people believed—
the way professional boxers
believe—in their inevitable
victory. So, the poem
tried on belief, wore it
like a restitched, spruced-up,
hand-me-down suit,
and walked around believing
the way some people stroll a mall
with a hip-hop, street-savvy cool,
even though they’ve lived
in the suburbs
all their lives.
Having been given
the impression that
saying something ten times
makes it more true
than saying it twice, the poem
repeated what it was told,
believing, also, that
the longer a belief
was believed, the better,
that more believers
believing made a belief
truer still, which made
the poem’s body
itchy, which after a while,
made the poem ask
what the hell is this?—
though none of the people
seemed to understand the question,
which made the poem
feel pretty far away,
though it was standing
in the middle of everything,
which made the poem feel
like pounding its head
with a meat tenderizer,
like hugging a hornets’ nest,
like feeding itself
to a flock of pigeons
who would fly away
with their bellies cooing,
believing nothing,
with no particular
destination in mind.
