Lone man, feet falling,
flitting the air, knocking
holes in the walls again,
tape stifling his screaming,
leaving eyes
lurking, some crying,
open wider than before.

I hold closed their lids
to quiet the wobbling,
gawking slits,
hands shaking, wishing
you had left
your tongue lifeless,
kept your face
a dull mask,
so their class and race
could rise and hide
us in the shadows.

If only I were
the right gender
to fight,
my fists had kept
them distant,
not kept full
with reasons
to stay complacent,
maybe we could
have woke
with the sun again,
to labor in the blaze
of day until we wish
it gone.

As I watch
your fit dulling,
I imagine seeing
teeth clenching
behind your neck,
a mother pinching
you into
a hunch, leaving
your floppy body
dangling, digging at the air.
She’d carry you
into the pantry,
hide you
behind cans,
and boxes,
and stacks
of papers
she could never read
until you
did not whimper.

In the morning
I will wash the pillows,
I will sink them in a bath,
I will draw taut the sheets,
fold the fabric flat,
pinch it damp onto rope,
press in pins with my thumbs
see your pendant stitched
at the closing of my cuff,
they will dump you in the river,
I will pull you
from my hair,
In strands and clumps,
I will scrub you from my skin
until your scent is none,
I will watch that silver
sliver of moon waste
into the night,
I will not stop
until there is
no more
lone man
and his slick,
quick knot
of the throat.

As for now,
I wait.

I wait to lean in closer.
Slip my arms into his sleeves,
Stand and wear him like a sweater.

Then whisper a low growl into the haste.