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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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