Rodney King is Dead
The night I found out
that Rodney king died
I sat propped up by two lumpy pillows
in my bedroom
with clothes that did not know
whether they were clean or dirty
strewn about the floor.
I thought of you and I
on my bed
your Newport breath and
your bony hips and
how they grinded
against mine and how
that most vulnerable
weak sinking feeling after
we both finished
must have been an awful lot
like how Rodney felt
when he realized
he was drowning
at the bottom of a swimming pool.
No Good Mornings
It’s morning. Outside sounds that disgust each other fight
nail to coffin into your apartment. You—hunched over
and heavy—sit bedside, chin to chest deep lined dark circled.
He’s still sleeping— inanimate except for that part of him
you’ve grown to know so well—gently pulsing, half-covered
beneath the white sheet. Is this how he would look
if they gunned him down
in the middle
of the street?
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