how dangerous it is to be a body, cloaked in dawn
dancing to the beat of one’s own name. the sky combs
the head, a silken tongue—yellow—attempting to comfort.
a silicone of happiness gallops from the lips,
sings itself against the wide night. as it leans back
on its bones, a dance.
and the bullets come like a ghost, quiets the body.
it was too easy a song from the throat called
baggage, unwinding along the pavement. spilled
aside blood. dawn, and all its limbs, made to watch,
cold, becoming the day it was meant to be.
while the body loosens into itself, it asks:
what is to become of us now, a frog in its chest.
and the surrounding flail their voices
into the moon, their shrieks toppling what the body
are we to be angry? are we to lift our hearts
with palms, stow it in the bathroom cabinet? forget?
the body dead aside its siblings melt into our eyes,
an image unforgettable. their pale expressions laced
across. o dawn! o little blood
shed when we speak the word death. shot.
who will be missed?
as the bullets fled the bodies, let flesh fold into flesh,
the sun gave up being a sun. the moon tarried, wandered
along the horizon, lonely moth. nowhere is left. not the light
of the names, now tiny spots on our tongues. not the angels
we’ve pressured to cover us in god’s holiest. massacre
is no secret. it is biblical, a thwacking hurricane
come to seduce the body into giving up.
the bullets said. there’s nothing left on this earth for you.
The above poem is in honor of the massacre in Orlando, FL on June 12, 2016. To know about the massacre, please click here.
In addition, please consider donating to the grief hotline. For more information, here.