FOR THE COLOR PINK AND GENERATION Z

When you tell me all your friends are dead,

I’m reminded that not all things

are metaphors. From above

a thousand flamingo legs

look like a river meant to cut

through the pink earth

forcefully. After this latest hurricane

I cried when the wind pushed

the most beautiful birds into piles—

dead and colorful.

The only useful thing I have done

in this life is teach students

how to write a poem about a gun,

without a gun.

And to hear you all reading together,

to feel this kind of turn.