I can’t write it.

The lockdown of life.

But, that seems unimportant

compared to the taking.

Knees on necks.

Shotguns to abdomens.

Teargas and crispen orange blazes–

a clear quarantine that’s been lived

in your street and communities and

homes and where you work and nextdoor.

Now, months into house arrest:

Headaches. Tremors. Anxiety.

Liplocked in masks, breath labored.

I still can’t grasp how it must feel

to be black in America.

Infinitely on house arrest.

Afraid of everything,

and yet — living.

Suffocated. Clenched.

Gasping at every

side eye, siren, request for ID.

I can’t write it.

In the deepest depths

of my creativity. It isn’t reachable.

I can’t fix it in my brain the way

running from it wears at the

soles of feet like sand, over rock –

until the even the hardest of

elements simply disappear.

And thirst is trivial.
Water, extravagant.

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