Author | Kelsey May
When we open our arms,
flight happens. Curtains swing back
from their windows and sky cups our faces.
Throw my body against the ground
and its blood curdles in my mother’s throat.
But she can pluck reasons from the circumstance,
seek retribution. Throw a Black body
against the ground and skin – that gift wrap of life –
parts like the Red Sea and Moses passes
through, his lungs bulletholed and holy.
Something besides curtains swing toward his face.
Blue uniforms behind every rock and no
choice but to raise his hands toward the horizon.
His desert anything but free, he walks,
re-melodizing a funeral march into
tomorrow’s bursting chorus,
a girth wide enough
to be unnecessary.
About the Author | Kelsey May’s poetry has recently appeared in Non-Binary Review, Pine Hills Review, Barking Sycamores, and damselfly press. She has also received numerous grants and awards, including a nomination for a 2016 Pushcart Prize. She loves grilled cheese sandwiches and reading novels about Central America.