by Camonghne Felix
& how many times must I wake to
The sound of my own weeping? —
The violence of existing in this body
worn fresh on my face and I can’t wash it off,
the green eye of my
computer screen daring me to
shut it all down for the day,
For the month —
to shut it all down for eternity,
to shut the streets down,
shut my pride down,
walk out onto the sidewalk
with my hands open to circumstance
begging to be taken next.
Instead, I silence the dribble of Slacks
mute my inboxes
and quietly organize
my Rage to collect your life
in wishes, in what I would want
for you if you were my kin,
my blood, my sibling—
I wish you the soft hand of prayer.
I wish you a belly of long lost pleasures
and a dress room of hymns.
I wish you an undisturbed peace and an ignorance to hell.
I wish you a bath of fresh lilies and a time-warped end,
where death is no final form
and Death is not your name.
I wish you a world where Death is the field you lay down in
and in it is the soil of your rebirth
and In every town, your name, a tiny bird on the tongue
of the voiceless. In every mouth, a vowel gone
undone. In every eye, a tear to water your memory
In every chest, a thumping reminder that we must remain
a Menace to
To survive is the greatest equalizer
But to die
Is to multiply;
Is to multiply.
Last updated May 16, 2023