At the Wrist


Opened, & from it little wrecks fill

the tepid bathtub slowly becoming

an ocean. Every drop of us a frigate,

a war ship. Every half-meant prayer

a small city, razed: rebar & cinders:

collapsed schools, childless: plane-

loads & planeloads of smooth metal

preparing itself for piercing light.


Some mistakes are worth repeating,

acts that nearly erase the impotency

of being one among many. Forever

dressing & undressing into/out of

communal needs. Agency in taking

back what was never yours to give.

A stranger’s life: a country warring

with itself: a body’s surrender: slow

slow liberation.


Accidental hours between gesture &

forgiveness: a once-thriving battle-

field gone briefly silent. Before our

echo expires, ask all we have hurt or

meant to hurt. Our mothers, kids:

flesh, blade: ask the shadowed sky

before it heals over & forgets us.

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