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They talk around the horror. For as long as they can stand it, they talk about stamina, the races they’d been training for, about their weekly mileage, their best split. They talk about their favorite trails and how the foot-give, the quiet, the way the sun crested over the ridge each morning on their last pass brought them peace, accomplishment. A good sweat. They talk
Without the sound of shots fired up the block, like a conversation between blown-out tires, and crickets swelling upto mask the dead air after, without the flashlights of policegrazing the windows, and voices relayed in from neighbors’ yards, what blessing for this hurtling earth would we have left
Ants line up for a single lick of a lollipop.Locked in my home I don’t need to hunt for food.Downtown Los Angeles is empty skyscrapers.Open their windows and they become really big flutes.The wind sings its way through them.Right to the tents that line the streets.Lined up like ants.The melody is of sirens. Of people.The Governor says we should stay at home.Home is where the
TW: lynchingThere’s a photo of Laura Nelson, a rope between her and a tree. The backdrop, more trees. A person in the picture is bound to history.Bound to the same color.And there’s a sculpture of Mary Turner in bronze holding her stomach. She is childless.Her husband Hazel died a day before her but with less spectacle.I always thought my mother was crazy for the way she wore
Juneau After ten years, recollection’s net needs mending. I tie-in nylon, replacing torn sections, but that is all I know of how to slow forgetting. Recall the kelp in clumps and strands like God’s oleaginous green hair clogging our shower drain.