"I Was Told the Sunlight Was a Cure" by Hanif Abdurraqib

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August 23, 2022 

I Was Told the Sunlight Was a Cure

Hanif Abdurraqib

for the cloak of despair thrown over our bright & precious
corners but tell that to the lone bird who did not get the memo
dizzy & shouting into the newly unfamiliar absence of morning
light from atop a sagging branch outside my window—a branch

which, too, was closer to the sky before falling into the chorus
line of winter’s relentless percussion all of us, victims to this flimsy math 
of hours I was told there was a cure for this. I was told the darkness
would surrender its weapons & retreat I know of no devils who evict themselves

to the point of permanence. and still, on the days I want
to be alive the sunlight leaves me stunned like a kiss
from someone who has already twirled away by the time my eyes open 
on the days I want to be alive I tell myself I deserve a marching band 

or at least a string section to announce my arrival above
ground for another cluster of hours. if not a string section, at least one
drummer & a loud-voiced singer well versed in what might move me
to dance. what might push my hand through a crowded sidewalk

towards a woman who looks like a woman from my dreams
which means nothing if you dream as I do, everyone a hazy quilt
of features only familiar enough to lead me through a cavern of longing
upon my waking & so I declare on the days I want to be alive I might drag

my drummer & my singer to your doorstep & ask you to dance
yes, you, who also survived the groaning machinery of darkness
you who, despite this, do not want to be perceived in an empire
awash with light in the sinning hours & we will dance

until our joyful heaving flows into breathless crying, the two often pouring
out of the chest’s orchestra at the same tempo, siblings in their arrival & listen,
there will be no horns to in the marching band of my survival.

the preacher says there will be horns at the gates of the apocalypse & I believed even myself
the angel of death as a boy, when I held my lips to a metal mouthpiece & blew out a tune
about autumn & I am pressing your ear to my window & asking if you can hear the deep
moans of the anguished bird & how the wind bends them into what sounds like a child
clumsily pushing air into a trumpet for the first time & there’s the joke:

only a fool believes that the sound at the end of the world would be sweet.

Copyright © 2022 by Hanif Abdurraqib. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 23, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.

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“I am someone who is easily seduced by the lies of both time and light. As such, I easily fall victim to the potential miracle of daylight savings time, when the hours of sunlight extend just a bit longer. It is also seductive for me to blame all of my melancholic longing or grief or the hauntings of absence entirely on winter. In Ohio, winter can arrive late and stay long, with no regard for the machinery of the heart. It dawned on me this year, on my couch under a blanket with the sun still out, that maybe I am not propelled towards pleasure by light alone. I’m still figuring out the math, I guess. I’ll let you know when I do.”
Hanif Abdurraqib
Hanif Abdurraqib is the author of A Fortune for Your Disaster (Tin House, 2020), winner of the 2020 Lenore Marshall Prize, and A Little Devil in America (Random House, 2021), winner of the 2022 Andrew Carnegie Medal for Excellence in Nonfiction and the Gordon Burn Prize. He lives in Columbus, Ohio.
A Fortune for Your Disaster
(Tin House, 2020)

“Poem with Lines from Pierre Reverdy” by Sandra Simonds
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excerpt from “The Age of Aquarius” by Roy G. Guzmán
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Thanks to Donika Kelly, author of The Renunciations (Graywolf Press, 2021), who curated Poem-a-Day for this month’s weekdays. Read or listen to a Q&A about Kelly’s curatorial approach and find out more about our guest editors for the year
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