The Great Reset

How a MFA matured a poem.

“The Great Reset” was rewritten during my MFA workshop at Pacific University (highly recommended!) under the guidance of the great Ethiopian poet, Mahtem Shiferraw.

The process became an exercise in restraint and learning to let the poem breathe through sectional architecture rather than a single continuous emotional surge. Each section now functions as both rupture and renewal, mirroring the disjointed way memory, intimacy, and regret coexist in long-term relationships.

Through workshop dialogue, I began to see that the poem’s emotional cadence required fragmentation to mirror the internal logic of reflection, that the silence between sections carries as much weight as the lines themselves.

Philosophically, this revision invited me to explore how form can enact meaning: that breaking a poem apart can paradoxically bring it closer to truth, where interruption and pause become forms of understanding rather than fracture.

The result, in my opinion, a more mature poem that resonates deeply.

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The Great Reset

I.
There is, perhaps, a quiet devastation
in everything we have ever done.

The note I left on the granite kitchen counter—
a list of things to do whilst I travelled.
You’re forgetful, so if I put it in ink, I’m convinced it will happen.
But perhaps you’re not quite so forgetful

‘Water the lawn, twice.
Water the houseplants but only once—you’ll kill them.
It’s recycling day on Monday.
Do not let Wren watch too many shorts; make sure he exercises.
Reschedule his piano lessons.
Order four AA batteries for Hunter’s fluorescent sign that says “Chill.”
Find a home for the jasmine I uprooted—it’ll wither and die, otherwise.

I love you.’

This missive is, perhaps, a lonely manifestation
of everything I have ever done.

II.
Perhaps we knew it was happening,
at times, during arguments
where vitriol filled the air.

Perhaps, after all,
we were both complicit in this slow,
manufactured demise.

Perhaps, if we will it into existence,
this will be known as
The Great Reset.

III.
I boarded the plane.
It so happened to be an honor flight:
one WWII veteran, six Korean War veterans,
multiple from the Vietnam War.
Whooping and hollering,
tiny American flags being waved,
as obese passengers are
grotesquely stuffed into tiny seats.

I imagine all the horrors these gentlemen have seen
a hollowed-out victory,
only to live with the slow death of memory,
their own personal march into oblivion.

These heroes. Their elegy—a flight.
That is all.
I offer hollow applause.
It means nothing to me.
There is no valor here,
this is my dishonor roll.

IV.
The night I return, awaiting shallow intimacy,
I feel a small nodule, perhaps a lump,
in my left testicle.
A restless sleep follows,
for once, for different reasons.

I drift off to lands separated by wars.
To my homeland, the patchwork quilt of Europe.
Travel two hours, find a different culture, a foreign tongue.
Those wars were worth fighting.
Yet, here we live with
the relentless
monotony
of homogeneity.

In the morning, my daughter is sleeping
I brush a stray hair from her cheek
On the desk beside her, the sign flickers
and I ache.

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