The following is a riff on William Carlos Williams’ poem, Danse Russe.

If I when my husband’s gaming
and the phones and iPads
are charging
and the moon is a blood-shot eye
in slinking squints
through apartment blinds,—
if I in my bedroom
speak selfies, empty truths
into my mirror
wetting fatigues with my tears
reciting mantras to myself:
“I am solid and sound…”
“Enclosure of things to be…”
“The tongue of you…”
If I cherish my voice, my lisp,
my diction, tone, speaking
against the white noise nation

Who’s to say I am not
the prophetic bard of this unit?