I spent the morning staring at the brown eyes of your photograph,
Imagining your mustache on my thighs;
I wished for the fullness of your lips on my collarbone
and that you’d be there when I got home.
The night before I watched the news as the tear gas
choked and burned the protestors.
I thought about Malcolm X before his pilgrimage and took my evening shower.
Your side of the bed remains undisturbed except for the damp towel that I threw there.
Last night, I didn’t dream about what I wanted: your strong hands on my waist, the deep inhaled scent of- I keep your shirt near to my pillow- the force of your love behind me and over top of me.
I dreamed instead of civil war.
I saw tanks slithering down Main Street,
Militiarized police and our son crying at the edge of a cliff.
He was shaking a tiny branch and screaming Dr. King’s words, “I have a dream!”
He fell. I reached for him, grabbed him by the tiny branch, but the branch broke. Our son and my heart fell over the edge.
I stood there facing the brilliant shields with my hands up and a hole in my chest.
When I woke up, I craved for you to be inside me, filling all my space and making me whole again.
I could almost taste the salty rain from your chest. I wanted you so.
There are candles and cut flowers on the street- that cover your bloodstains.
I can’t visit them anymore, can’t get the image out of my head. I feel like I am wrapped completely in that yellow tape.