The people will come together.
Even if it means planes dropping from the skies.
Even if it means malls become mausoleums
for the clothing we cared about
when we were seen.
After schools shut and playgrounds shut and parks
and finally the streets – even if it means
we’ll have to keep washing
our hands until we can’t make fists
without our skin splintering into faults
over all its potentially diseased topography –
when at last I’ve become a master chef,
when my roommate jumps off our balcony
to keep from hearing yet another cool song
I’ve freestyled in the kitchen or living room
or bathroom, until I finally stick a fork in my eye
just for something to do. After the silence
howls and the cities are all space, still our arms
will beg and beg and beg for the people
to come together – and they will.
The people will come together,
over our dead bodies.