pond with blood

for the victims of the Orlando Shooting

in a poem about murder,
i write myself
a large field. in the middle
of the field, a pond pregnant
with fish. at night, a bloom
of roses sing, i’m beautiful,
from the field’s pupil.
nobody cares for a flower
with thorns. aside
the field’s cheek, “a highway,”
i write, “after-murdered.”
there is blood aside the curb
of the highway
from the roses lost.
“roseblood,” rolls
from my tongue,
into the poem’s end.
there’s always blood.

i walk across the field,
from the highway’s steep,
grass lifted like small tongues.
i rave on and on about the bodies.
“and a fir tree aside the pond,”
said the poem. the pond, in all its wet
tussles.

*

inside the pond, the fish,
some turquoise-green, some pink,
some thick with tailfins, silver
in the way it pools behind,
swim single-file from end
to end. the entire school
a brilliant cobra.
scales parading
their lyric. i ask permission
to speak about the shooting,
but the pond-snake is silent.
unbothered by the weight of it all.

*

it’s night. i’m thirsty
for the flowers’ hum.
i knew i was harmless,
imagining a scene
from beneath my fingerprint.

the moon lay wedged
between the stars
and i’m impatient.
i reach for the most
distant rose, of course,
across the field.
i knew better,
but reached anyways,
nightsky etching
my body’s outline.

*

poor death. this poem is really
about you. not once was i clear…

black bodies keep dying.
brown bodies keep dying.

i hollow the memory
with the truth:
i cried that morning
when my phone bled
the news.

i’m alone.

i’m afraid to pray.

i give the pond
the taste of tears
and continue
within the scene.

*

i lay atop the pond. nothingness
blankets my body.
i’m quiet in this poem, consumed,
bullet by bullet, by what’s left
of us. of what’s to come.
but who’s to say? the night
is wide. arduous. doesn’t budge.
even for me.

*

i’m beautiful.
there they are:
the os at the tip
of the petals,
fanning
patiently
as the night-
moon
gilds
their voices.
thorns
alive,
harping
the cool
dark.
i’m beautiful.

*

as a poet, i’m interested
in the firefly’s dance.
their brush and glow. i want
to sprinkle them across
the poem, mimic the body’s
love for music. see the dead
pick dirt from the corners
of their jaws, become
light.

*

i’m a simple magic.
i dash into bone—the thick root
of the body’s make. their faces—
fragile angels—i want to see
against the sky’s trail
into line. give me a song,
begs the fir. make me a rose.
i ask the fir of their names.
the fir is lucid,
shakes its pines in disapproval.
i scratch the question,
blushed with furry,
continue anyways: