They shot a lot of black men,
this year.

Men with power and uniforms.
They were shot, too.

Schools were bombed
bullets scattered
& teachers, like me, had panic attacks practicing
drills, imagining their students’ bodies
riddled with shrapnel.

& we argued about gun control,
racism,
immigrants,
walls.

Injustice permeated the coffee I drank to calm myself.
Sorrow waltzed along the edges of cheerful conversations
in the grocery store.


White men and women took to platforms,
insisting their version of justice could correct
the suffering.

No one really believed them.
Presidency became a mockery
Division made more clear.


Over three hundred died in Baghdad,

no one flew their flag.

Maybe we were tired of avatars with flags of nations other than our own.
all suffering.
Perhaps so much compassion was overwhelming.
It could be that skin color meant more than I thought.


The skin color I wore,
Light, spattered with freckles,
made my compassion a condescension.
--how could I understand?

i love
you
with locked elbows
and tight fists.
one keeps you
at a distance
where i can see
your every move
but the other
keeps you
from running away.

I said "It's a beautiful
City!" To which
Several replied emphatically
"Expensive!" Soon I
Discovered that the
Philosophers and dreamers
Ended up driving cabs around
Beautiful, expensive cities.

Here, somewhere between
my coffee and your juice,
my potatoes and your eggs,
there are five,
maybe seven,
chairs that sketch a trail
to your strategically placed shoulders
that trace your back,
which is hunched
and faced toward me.
I didn’t know, then, that
These five to seven chairs would
More loudly
Say such magnanimous words.

I imagine they will look at me with
Patronizing incredulity
When they ask “So, you love him?”
& I unblinkingly answer
“yes”
here they will chuckle with great
condescension and worry,
believing I don’t understand the meaning.
Perhaps, they are right.
The trouble is:
I don’t like him.
It’s not merely that.
I am somewhere between
I-am-mildly-interested
I-like-him
& I-am-going-to-marry-him.
Which, in the smallest of my mother tongue, leaves me
With love.
I love him, in my way.
In the way I—with twenty years behind me—believe is love.

You used to sing with your whole body—
eyes closed
hands outstretched.
& I’m a little uncertain
why you clasped your fists
& opened your eyes,
& restrained the music in your body.
Maybe it was sobering for you
to embrace great change,
to begin to question
all the truths you once felt
certain of and swayed out of your body.
the music became angry
& your smooth forehead
furrowed  with woe.
There is a silence in the place of
the loud, unapologetic, out-of-tune
vocals that sprung from the core
of your body.
in that cavernous container for the soul.

Manhood now covers the cheerful cacophony of childhood
loudly released with joy.
& childhood would be welcomed to return
if you might sing again.

in my stomach,
practically attached
to the indention that nourished me
in the womb,
a thread,
or string,
[some yarn?]
p u l l s
& I’m certain that,
should I follow it,
it would directly lead me
to you and perhaps this
a   c   h  e
will subside.