Mal Virich

new years 2025 in which everything feels older and older

i don’t write my poems to be political
but my body inherits policy
when my brain boils over onto superheated sidewalk,
or my skin sloughs off into knee-deep seawater,
we all know who to blame
 
i remade myself in 2017
chalk-scrawling my new name on the concrete
thinking it might be enough
and when i saw two women holding hands
at the marina, gazing at lake michigan
in my catholic wisconsin hometown
i thought it might be enough
 
we’ve gone most of a decade yet
my old school principal says “don’t ask, don’t tell”
and pride flags get ripped on the street
they’re banning books with a whisper in milwaukee
while people are fighting to eat
they invited matt walsh to my campus,
ben shapiro, too
abortions are out of reach
my taxes fund genocide
billionaires protect hate speech
i’m at a loss for what to do
 
i’ll say it again:
i don’t write my poems to be political
but being political writes me
i’ve got my family to fight for
solidarity to maintain
myself to keep alive
and i think that might be enough
 
 
“Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”
—Audre Lorde