June Jordan died in June,
this Cranbrook summer at Cave Canem
just outside Detroit, a city
which seems to be bleeding out
in that slow, American way
We seem to
Excel at.

This is the month I’ll miss her, when
everything else around is lush
and greened.

Look what all that anger got her,
a few of the fellows feel like saying,
as we pass and read her poems aloud.

As if cancer heat-seeks the truthful ones,
gobbles their bones like candy.

Some folks nod,
and some don’t.

But I’m thinking of June, and
this summer’s new gear:
The noise of poets, our full chatter,
Ears now tuned for a sound
which will never sound.