Janelle DolRayne

Poem for Orlando

I end in, 

“I can’t imagine.”

Perhaps to stop

what needs to be

imagined. That

phrase, my attempt

to clot the blood,

to induce numbness,

to end too early.

To end too early.

I’m tired of the lack

of imagination.

I’m tired of thinking

I should turn this off.

I want to imagine

the way they were

dancing. The way

the club was winding

down to reggae. I want

to imagine lovers

silencing and holding

each other under tables.

I want to imagine the pressure

of a hand over a stranger’s

wound. I want to imagine

the typos as shaking thumbs

frantically text “I love yu.”

I want to imagine

the surrender of sending

“I going to die.” I want to imagine

playing dead. I want to imagine

the cousins lying on top

of each other in the bathroom,

touching and scratching

each other to say

“I’m here.” “We good.”

I want to imagine how

hard I would squeeze

my own cousin when

there was no reply.

Don’t let there be

no reply. Don’t let

there be no reply.