I have a mem­o­ry of Lucille Clifton respond­ing to a young poet who asked her how she man­aged to be a pro­duc­tive pub­lish­ing poet despite hav­ing to raise six chil­dren, by say­ing, ​“I wrote short­er poems.” Of Clifton’s many bril­liant truths, this stays with me. And this pithy ele­gy, ​“5÷23÷67 R.I.P.”, select­ed by Aracelis Gir­may in a remark­able new gath­er­ing of Clifton’s poet­ry, would have been writ­ten when her chil­dren were young, and when Amer­i­ca was burn­ing with upris­ings, and when Langston Hugh­es died. She accept­ed the heavy man­date passed on to her by Langston Hugh­es, to ​“remem­ber now like/​it was,” and we are the bet­ter for it.