TO THE ST. CHARLES SCHOOL OF POETRY

Benjamin Goldberg

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls and neither,

future sages, saints, and saviors of all ages,

I’m here, I promise, not to make you squirm

with every dripping, heart-sopped word—

I’m not here to speak of history or dust,

or what we must come to, or through, or from—

I’m here to praise the single sun-sworn promise

that each of you has come. You’re here.

Not just here, though. But here, here.

I hear cringing. I hear eyelashes start to twitch

in all directions at what might now come stumbling

from my mouth. And, yes, as your eyes dart anywhere

to get away from mine, let them rest

a second on whoever’s sitting next to you.

Whoever it is, listen: they have choruses

pouring from each iris. And if you’re thinking,

“I’m pretty sure a person’s eyes don’t sing,”

then look again, because I’m pretty certain

you’re not really listening. And if, right now,

you’re thinking anything else but 1) “this is very weird,”

and 2) “I am made to be exactly this amazing,”

then think harder, because you’re not really thinking.

Dear poets, I’m here because I hear each of you

more fiercely than a storm between my ears.

Dear warriors, I’m here because your voices

walk this earth and share your name.

Because there isn’t one of you who cannot

spit a nation into flames. You’re the reason

I am thinking that the sky can grow new wings.

I believe you when you say a sun can sing.