Park Bench, a dangerous thing
to lie on [under normal circumstance]
he has shot me in the neck
no movement
but still talks to me
like I’m not written off.
He puts the gun in my
limp hand, plays with
my skin flap, tells me how he’ll
finish [my hope still clinging].
There is a lot of blood.
“Give me the gun.” [He can do
anything.] My spine against the wood
stiffens as he steps back, saying,
“This is the third and final time
I told you about.”
The scene here, night, an open park with
few trees, but yes a playground. I
lift my shirt-bottom over my eyes
last bit of strength
as he raises the gun, fires
a bullet between them.
I am not dead, but it is easy to pretend.
[I do not know the meaning
of this dream, why the killer retreats
satisfied.] The feeling is diagnostic,
close but still here
[hope is tough].
. . . .
A group of men takes interest, somehow I reach out,
grab a shirt sleeve.
Help.
My third eye, open,
does not like the look in his blond.
Oh no.
The blond wants finds a new toy.
“Wear her out.” “Yes.”
[Intention is louder than words.]
I can’t stop the lifting,
dragging, I am at
their mercy
’s end
. . . .
The park isn’t empty1 [it feels forced]
The people can’t associate—integrate
into a night at the park, this figure:
a dragged and shot, bleeding woman
being taken [passive, by whom?] toward
a van where…
[I flinch to consider my end.
It is not pretty, and it is inevitable.]
Little black girl playing with your mother
at the booths, the playground where there is
candy and light, she doesn’t want you
to see my eyes pleading.
She moves away, pulling
your hand.
The woman tries
to keep her daughter from looking.
But she does look.
-
This park is Eros. ↩
