the blueshift journal

Tonight I find myself walking alone. Black

boy walking alone with fingernails painted

the color of roses. Queer black man boy

walking alone in an almost maybe

used to be black neighborhood. Here

between sidewalk and street—concrete

and pavement—there is only one way

for the body to fall. I walk faster, homeward

bound before someone confuses these fast

legs for a woman refusing a catcall. Homeward

bound before someone thinks I’m the one

that robbed that store or…As I am

taught I am black and suspicious, not allowed

to be curious: You bring your black ass straight

back home you hear? I walk faster—body

somewhat tense, preparing myself

for everything when I feel the weight of another

behind me, walking this close. I move

to give them room. They follow. I think

this could be my shadow or another brother. Me

or another brother. My shadow or me waiting

on the death of it. I think, is it going to happen

here? Maybe someone is killing black people

tonight. But when is that not true? Perhaps

my brother is on a faggot hunt. Either way

I’m cornered. Maybe I’m tripping, hope not

to trip on the sidewalk and get caught with

concrete, something that hard in my mouth.

Either way I refuse to say it’s a “black on

black crime.” Or do you still believe

everything you’re taught?

 

//

 

This is what I love: to sleep and wake up

alive. Today Alton Sterling woke up a dead

man like he has so many times before dying.

Imagine Alton saying is it going to happen

here? Did his shadow sense that bullet?

Was the bullet the shadow the white man

that killed him? While he lay dying,

Alton, Illinois reports that a black woman

took a policeman’s gun and took her own

life, took matters into her own hands before

they could take that liberty. Imagine relieving

oneself of an inevitable pain. Imagine that

false story living as truth, not being here

to say I was murdered, a policeman took

my life while escorting me to the hospital.

While seeking help for help you die. I say,

what’s worst: the truth of genocide or

the remedy of suicide? Alton’s shadow

shadows Alton, two dark figures in a fight

on the concrete pavement sidewalk street

broad as daylight. I witness this. I walk

faster, homeward bound thinking about

Alton and then Alton. I think, is this

what they call black on black crime—

one murder after the other on top

of the other? White hands stained red from

planting evidence, erasing fact, creating

fictions? Somehow my black body does not

bruise. The shadow comes forth, I’m posed

for death. You still believe this here story?

 

                        //

 

I have brothers and sisters who I don’t know

who don’t know me but know that I am

their brother. Some of them say they ain’t

supposed to be here. Some say I wish he were

here. That they were here. And she. They say

I want it to stop here before they last held

breath and love with vibrant kindling. I don’t

have the words but the poem somehow forms

itself. I wish it would stop here but it keeps

going. They say it happened here here here

in this neighborhood on her street my brother

and sister. What’s worst: another name added

to the roll call of black death or expecting it,

remaining unmoved at even the thought?

I wish the poem could write itself but

the shadows of the names of those faces

dance across the page saying insert me here

insert me here insert me...

 

                                                   his body lay

slumped in the car. His fiancé reaches out.

The policeman says don’t touch him. This

they call a black on black crime: black love,

black caring for black wanting to hold back

black from something. I almost named

this poem Alton but before the blood ink dried…

 

                        //

 

I think to myself, is it really trauma

if the event hasn’t passed? If it’s more than

possible for even the target of your tool

to kiss my sweet brown temple and

for you to pull the trigger that triggers me and for us

to call that a reality? I cover my mouth cradle

my thoughts police my actions until I become

a tiny precious flower. Please let me live.

Please let me stay here. In the photo I see

the man sitting in the car. Laid in the car,

his mouth loose and lifeless. In the photo

the hand holding the gun into the window

of the car is colored by whiteness. I see

the gun the black gun the white hand

the black gun and this is what I call

a black on black crime. The shadow creeps

up on me. My fingernails are painted

the color of roses. I cover them, if only so

the sidewalk won’t be painted with my blood.

Black man slain here and here and here—

red roses trying to grow from concrete. Dying

on concrete. I walk faster. It walks faster until

we are both running in the night. Suspicious

in the night. My brother shadow me my own

terror ours…

​

                                                  In the photo

the gun’s eye is posed to face mine: black

on black. The gun winks. I flinch. My life

flashes.