Daisy Bassen
American sonnet on fundraising emails with less than fifty days to go
These are terrible numbers.
So as much as I hate to come to you like this,
Here’s what you need to know right now—
We couldn’t make this shit up if we tried.
I’ll explain more, but if that is all you need to hear,
It’s time to get serious.
Waking up to the worst news,
I want to be clear: these are not simply careless words.
Can I be real with you?
That’s not a lot of time,
There’s no sugarcoating it
That being said, I’m no stranger to tough fights.
And what if I told you
I hate to say I told you so.
Night after Dobbs
It makes sense I woke at 4 am.
Not because that’s the hour before
The dawn, the darkest time, not
Because it’s the inflection point
At which your body is the coldest,
When it is hardest to become warm.
4 am is when you woke to nurse, crying
That the day was too far away to wait
For satisfaction. I loved you
And I could hate that time, the obligation
My body would answer even if I didn’t
Want to. I met it with poor grace
So many mornings. My efforts at patience
Flawed, knowing I wouldn’t go back
To sleep and that you might or might not.
Either way, I’d be awake, bound
To stay that way, knowing I’d face daylight
Tired, beset, separate from my chimerical self.
I know there is nowhere I can send you
To be safe, even if you’d go. Safety
Isn’t what I need to consider now, I can’t go
Back to sleep, not even if I could recognize
The dreams for what they are, if I could fly
Instead of falling, my arms as effective
As wings, keeping my hands free, impossible.
