This is another piece that uses proximity and space to present meaning — read it as you will, but it is difficult not to allow the two columns to interact with each other. In writing it, I considered the interaction between the paragraphs on a horizontal relation, not just a vertical one. This one needs some help with the formatting, but this will do for now.
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There is a static sound
that swirls with the dregs
in my coffee.
It reminds me of the evening
news. I stare into it
the way I used to the
eye of my bathtub, fearing
the whirlpool surely
waiting beneath those candied
bubbles.
As a boy I was afraid of
the seasons. Spring was a bully -
seeds of grass, bark and
flowers clinging to my shirt
and palms like sweat in summer.
I sit and melt, my throat
of beeswax and cheeks a tangy
cherry stain. My mind
elsewhere - beyond the jeering
robin song, below my
rallying peers content with
sticks and stones.
Don’t stare at the sun,
said someone, or maybe
I figured it out at camp or
from a cartoon or
those sitcoms that seem
to write themselves.
Those trailing chuckles
on the laugh-track mocked
authenticity and tried to beat
life into the pre-recorded.
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Describing how I imagine the
soil of Uganda is something like
trying to explain a certain color.
I often wonder if I could
taste the rubber of size-six
soldiers’ soles or if it would taste
like all those times I’ve
eaten other words.
I lost count of minutes
I stared at the beads of sweat
on his many foreheads - the ones
my search engine offered me.
It’s hard to see past the creases
in his brow when every wrinkle
and pore begs me to look inside
a man who tears youth
from the recesses of love.
In the radio songs I hear them
stepping on the cracking
soil, away from their own
backyards.
In videos, the
fear of his name passes
clean through the copper
wires beneath these streets
paved gold. The bumps on
my skin have less to do with
the cold of winter than the
bone-chilling heat that shakes
tiny hearts, beating twice
as often as they should.
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