Alive & Full – Scalawag


When I say God is a cop, I mean to say god

      is a sergeant of sapphire and riot. He loves me 
      is a sergeant over at the local precinct. He keeps following me

      like a meteor hurling itself into my muddy emollient,
      like he’s looking for a good reason to pick me up

      my fated impermanence. 
      or shoot.

I can’t just say it plain. Not this. Not the terror of my lineage.

      I was designed to die—of course—but see how He charges
      I know how this ends, with me flat on my face again

     across my threshold & into my womxn, tearing through 
      and some story about my indecency,

      the many etches of my face, a symphony of lead 
      my criminal record—my history of theft

      playing into the palette of my ivory, blistering my cheeks
      playing out perfectly in the headlines—I’m sure they’ll see me

      until I evaporate under the gas-doused kiss of yet another one
      as another one of those wannabe anarchists

      of His greedy nights.
      talking too much shit.

I can’t say it plain. Not this. Not that which has always been.

      My womxn is a glass marble He eternally cut out
      What will I tell my niece about the gun

      from the breast of an Eon or a She,
      and about the handcuffs and about what happens when

      a god of another name now forgotten,
      a Black girl is the victim of anything,

      plummeting wet and unwanted
      especially when she is soft and kind

      into the gaping mouths of our descendants

      out in a world that believes she is

      branched out in the flushed indigo desert of here,
      some terrible threat to innocence,

      a place compressed through His filtered memory
      a liar looking for lies in what has already been fact-checked

      of our mutual existence, leaving scratches in the zodiac
      by god, by the sergeant, and the judge

      and on the lids of their eyes, a single flake
      and the president, dammit, the congress

      of Hir original form survived,
      of our country

      —a universe unceremoniously unraveled.
      —a democracy dying.

I can’t say it plain. Not this.

      In His murderous light-stained hands
      And yet, after he has consumed

      everything,
      everything
 
      anything able to move
      we have yet to move anything,
                                                —is moved.
                                                —still.




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