RollingI pull back.The night becoming more of itselfby ignoring us, father & son.Language of fiststhrown out onto the wet grass.Or was I cryingtears, subjunctive? Little brother, I'm sorry.Your room suddenly smalleras mom teaches you how to call 9…  | The Rising Phoenix Review June 8 | Rolling I pull back.
The night becoming
more of itself
by ignoring us, father & son.
Language of fists
thrown out onto the wet grass.
Or was I crying
tears, subjunctive?
Little brother, I'm sorry.
Your room suddenly smaller
as mom teaches you how to call
911.
Look away.
Because to say American
is to forget your hands belonged
to forgotten killers.
Rolling
is what the neighbors saw.
Flashlights, rain, ponchos, muddied boots,
Is everything alright?
Like truth like flower
will blossom, blossoming, blossomed.
Help me!, you hear
but tonight it's your eyes that wilt.
Years later we bruise again
only to chase a memory
the way you cried, imperative,
Don't leave us!
Red suitcase. I'm packing
what doesn't belong to me
is also not yours to carry.
Three cops outside,
They better not take him back,
& just like that
I'm free to go.
So never mind the courage,
my vinegared mouth.
Remember that time
when he told you
to never end up like me?
So here I go, begotten.
Concrete, streetlights, broken sidewalk, black oak.
Dear little brother,
the sound of apathy is the light of passing cars. By Azul Biography: Azul is a puppeteer, playwright, and poet. He has worked with the Puerto Rican non-profit, Arte y Maña, as well as the historical political theatre company, Bread & Puppet. Azul lives in Seffner, Florida, with his mom and dad. | | | |
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