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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.

Posted 06/14/16
Thinking about Orlando tonight. Thinking about how imagination is part of compassion.
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