Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

Dining at a new restaurant, me and a group of friends landed on the topic of fears. We were between appetizers and our main dishes. Joel confessed to fearing spiders, recalling for us a teenage camping trip. A massive set of furry legs crawled out of his sleeping bag. Soon, he felt a sharp pain. He had to be taken to the hospital. Linda says a tiny prayer before getting on an elevator. She would rather take the stairs and does so if a building is under ten floors.

The oyster mushroom skewers arrived. I was kind of listening, but I was more into the food being set before us. Then it was my turn; I said I feared loneliness, that I would never experience the joy of friends, that I would lose out on moments like this, taking in the pleasures of the world. I was surprised by my expressiveness.

I hear that same fear in today’s poem, against the backdrop of violence as the speaker wavers between joy and oblivion.

I Want to Die
by Tariq Luthun

in the arms of everyone who’s ever loved me, each
appendage a tendril expanding into the ether
of every moment I am leaving behind. Know this: I have dabbled

in the enterprise of affection; cut my teeth on what it means
to hold and be held. Behold: everything that has ever been 
labeled “mine” was stolen.

From me, but also now by me. The land:
from us, and now the land
we were stolen to. I belong to nothing

but my friends—those who have entrusted me
with the gift of caring for them. For years, I trained myself
to not feel for anything to spare myself of having to feel

for everything: no partner, no child; my parents will
soon be gone too. Can you blame me? I watched men
and women say things they don’t mean and claim lives

from bodies they won’t ever eat. Some can’t stomach 
culling the protein from a fly, but drop before the silhouette
of a gun. Have you ever fallen for something empty

as a word? For me, it was joy—the way it bounces
when spoken. For years, I would whisper it hopelessly
to the moon. I thought nothing of it

until I found myself brave enough to chant before the sun—
it was in this light that I came to find
my peoples. I took shape among them:

Joy. Joy. Joy—what a lovely thing 
to feel. But, then again, the word
doom exists—sometimes

it’s almost too fun not to say. Apocalypse.
Even cicada sounds lovely 
with the right inflection. I wonder if

it’s stronger to nestle into the chest
of one’s sadness, or to lie about it.
Once, as a child, I spent a late summer night poking holes

into the window mesh that shielded us
against the bugs we had stolen 
away from. Each puncture

a compromise with those creatures
seeking refuge. As I did it, I repeated the syllables:

sim-muh-nim, sim-muh-nim

caught between cinnamon and synonym. Letting each letter
pass through until the end of the word. I imagine that
when this world ends, it will happen like a boy

yearning to be released from a warm room—
little by little, not all at once; unbothered
by the thought of losing his place. 

"I Want to Die" by Tariq Luthun. Used by permission of the poet.