March 11, 2026
Emma Johnson-Rivard
today, i’ve started to roam
our homes understood the clock and
subsequent circumstance. we filled
our walls with books and damaged animals,
an echo to our own scars. this is mine,
i explained once. this is safe.
but remember, said the poet,
that art cannot save the whole world. i
know this, too.
many surrendered. half didn’t have enough
to survive anyway. it didn’t have to be
this way but
we are still here. beyond gravestones,
today is a badge of honor.
Like all poetry about politics, this one is both entirely too specific and entirely, indulgently, too vague. In discussions with an artist friend of mine, we came to the conclusion that we're neither naive nor young enough to believe that art will save the world. It's a beautiful sentiment but it doesn't bear out. There's real work involved with that shit. Nonetheless, art has a role. Art can, and should, speak to the circumstances of our lives and the work we're attempting. I don't believe in a hopeless world. We are still here for a reason.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published weekly by Glass Poetry Press.
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