BY DARLENE SCOTT
She says the man threatened her.
Salt stings the corners of my eyes
wider than usual with the index
crisscross of plaid, cracked leather
of his sneakers; dare in his pout; my wet
skin, heavy to the pumpkin flesh, his also
cracking; my lips viscous; tentative.
I am cadence, 180 strides per minute.
Channel 6 will ask for a word or witness
to account the sprout of her limbs
near a bronze box, replica of the one in which
Henry Brown shipped himself to Freedom.
I give myself to morning nearly every day;
today, the breeze interrupts thick humidity.
But fails my skin.
In autumn, even, the weight of wet skin;
in the store choosing dinner; I-64 to errands
so heavy my Human wilts under it.
We should both know this.
Her petition finds me an excuse
of sweat and anonymity.