ani's pulse. that night we got kicked out of two bars and laughed our way home. that night you leaned over and threw up into your hair. and i held you there thinking i would offer you my pulse if i thought it would be useful. i would give you my breath except the problem with death is you have some hundred years and then they can build buildings on our only bones. a hundred years and then your grave is not your own.
laura,
two white cops.
i
let's just hold here. keep holding. let's just stay here.
colors of bennetton ad: driving along the potomac, looking for a place to sit. looking for respite. hunger.
have some work
two white cops.
for you
pulling over the colored ads. passing over the whitewash.
to do.
my pulse.
why would you do that while i was standing here?
i would offer you my pulse
translation: why are you trying to drive past me, while i am standing here?
if i thought it would be useful.
laura,
car in front: black man.
i have
car behind: black woman.
some work
car in the middle: pulse
for you to do.
cars on the road: luxury lives in luxury suvs pondering why the cops are wasting time questioning the terrorists when the policy is shoot to kill, craning their necks for a better view.
laura.
i start sweating the moment i step outside.
you
(reminding myself to breathe, deep breaths, not the natural shallow ones caused by this heat)
have
her hands were shaking.
work
why were her hands shaking?
to do
8 shots fired in point-blank range. not 5. 8.
fuckabees
white cops, watching the cars go by.
laura.
waiting for an opportune moment.
you have work
waiting for an illusion of luxury that they can shatter.
i would offer you my pulse
to do.
but the problem;
the problem may be that it's no stronger than yours.
1 comment:
"Often I write all day long with white ink on white paper, late into the night, until it is all I can do to feel the letters curving to the earth from the tip of the pen & then, I fall asleep. Dreaming of running, or maybe driving in a car the color of water & I wake the next day remembering nothing & I gather the stack of paper & a pen of black on the desk in front of me & the words begin to dance over the page like long-legged insects across a still lake & the words in white whisper behind & underneath the new day. If there is any secret to the life I live, this is it: the sound of what cannot be seen sings within everything that can. & there is nothing more to it than that." - brian andreas
you're a poet, Laura.
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