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.
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