Funk (#49 song)

Lily Painter

An eye from the Creator,

a fire, bright, setting slowly

over the cusp of the “new world,”

kissing the Old World, 

softly to sleep, it is the kissing that is soft,not the sleeping.

Under the light of that unwanted dawn there is

a warrior still left standing, wewar-journey them           to the battle and back,                     to the battle and back,                                to the battle and back,radiance, felt through thewater that flows blue but runs red,around and aroundthat quickly setting sun,

around and arounda circle, there aresongs for the way our warriorsused to honorably drift awayWe used to die in battlebut today they ring out— “whatchu tryna tell me?”while we slosh a bottle around,we laugh about how we are singingSongs from the wrong eagles,our war journey is through the hillswith the windows downIn a red ford withthe tribal tag tornand a car battery in the front seatWe are nurtured,

Remembered,by the birds who flyaround and aroundwhile we hit our handson the hoods of clunkersand when it stops being sacred,We laugh,We funk #49,here we live,here we are live.We laugh,my warrior, we aren’tthe warriors, of anythinglike that, anymore.Copyright © 2025 by Lily Painter. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on February 6, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets