Dear Lord,
Today I met Dorothy, who advised me to pray.
We met at the Greenpoint library to trade
toothbrushes, barsoap, and maxi pads which I
snuck out of a storage unit belonging to my
gentrifier mutual aid group. How quickly I am
trusted at such times, Lord, and by that I mean
they have taught me how to patrol for ICE.
What we do is watch what we cannot stop and record
who we cannot save and we collect our fears
and we eat them raw but bloodless. Jesus Name.
We are good lambs, Lord, we clean our plates,
we scribble down the names of streets where
eagles circle, low the eave, and peer disturbed
at diorama scenes of incomprehensible brutality.
(In case we are of use at that time)
I read a poem of Witness today, and by that I
mean: They have taught me to grieve a pain
which I may not obscene by putting it inside
of me, like haggling shards of spangled light,
sinking, sinking, then blooming temper,
the finally dissolving gel capsule of Nyquil.
As if I could comprehend Bisan. As if I could
cry as she cries on live and the comments
rolling in desperately translating, desperately
translating, desperately translating. Hot
strange tears rolling into one another’s eyes for
long enough that mold is permitted to form. My
big horse tears, drip fatly down at such regular
interval, shiny as they are fomented.
And by that I mean the moisture falls: click,
like a back muscle spasm, click, your teeth
knocking on mine, click, your discs, your fricting,
spine, which I can only rub over your shirt
and let you rut into me dazed. She asked
If I was a Christian. And by that she meant
If I thought I was made by someone who loves me.
How quickly I learned to copy the key and read
instead of listen to the news about the genocide.
My work is to witness, God, but sometimes I can
hardly stay awake, and I just think in such
mad, dripping deafness that maybe You can
see where I’m coming from, God, the book in my hand
or splayed in my lap. It is so easy to sleep in such
warm, quiet houses. You know.
Forgive me, God, I can only guess the sound
of gunshot which always is probably a firework
or a car backfiring or some other innocence dressed
as rupture while each window glows from each
coiled house. I feel silly, God, asking You
to care for us: your daughters loosed. Each in our own
crooked teeth, with spirits timely come to scream
as loud as possible, and as loud as possible,
and as loud as possible, and as loud as physically possible.
Do you remember when I was 19, God, You watched a hatred
take me. You saw how it hurt so just: a pain
belonging lone to Us. He turned his back
to zip his pants. Preposterous how he thought
I would not bite his neck and bite his neck and bite
his neck and bite his neck and bite through his
neck and bite clean through his neck, even the bone.
(How quickly I am trusted at such times, God)
Do you ever get tired of watching, God? Do
You ever miss the lightless sun? Do You ever hear
us nibbling on dried corn and field nuts and think
You’d rather just read about it? I asked Dorothy
if You call back and I was angry because
You didn’t pack the soap into bags and
You didn’t silence the shredding glass
even though You of all people should know
enough noise could kill us.
Maybe You’d like that, God. Maybe You’re lonely
and heaven is empty and everyone You love
is also stuck on Earth and You can see our mouths
open, our heads back, every single one of our
little yellow teeth, from far enough away
to believe that we are singing.
I asked Dorothy if You answer her,
“Why yes!”, she said beaming.
“Try today”, she begged me. She said:
“Every single time.”