after Donika Kelly
The night is on my neck like a lover's breath.
At the dance, I can hear today's music from a sniper's
distance. The jazz of pistols & AK-47s. Decibels
of the 50 BMG on repeat. & bodies dancing to the
heavy metal, rocking their legs like a memorized
disco dance. Two bones rattling against each other is
‘rock-n-roll.’ Glory to my sebaceous glands, I have
slipped away from the hands of death, time & again,
like an eel in a brown river. When the bullet hits his
frontal bone, it’s blues. Then, silence. Cause of death:
he couldn't move his feet to the rhythm of the music.
His life, a folk song. & so are all the lives in Africa.
The day awakes, & I'm still tipsy with adrenaline.
I wear my dancing heels & leak into the hole where
my fathers hid their hopes. But I do not go hoping
to find those hopes alive. I go to gather what is left
of them—the dry bones. Today, I have flexion
& acceleration. I have velocity & more adrenaline.
My body language is fright ‘n flight. & survival
depends on reflexes. One wrong move is a body
in repose—a potential energy elegy. Last night, at the
discotheque, as the dance floor was lit up with bullet
flares, I grabbed a boy by his hands, he was Black
American. & at the climax of catastrophe, we stared
into each other's eyes until I was lost in hi(s)tory
& he in mine. Like lovers, we moved our feet,
one step at a time, one step ahead of the bullet,
as if dancing ballet to the riddim of rifles.