I looked at life snuffed out of a black man
like he were my mother’s pagne,
lunging from the shadows of blue uniforms like
earth escaping flood, ark seeking land.
I wasn’t there but I know him and how his skin pores broke into bells
that couldn’t take a screaming mouth past a broken crucifix,
his balding head forging the soil of my room
where scalps look the end of a map.
I know the taste of his mother’s kitchen,
salt and jalapenos dicing away joy into edible morsels.
uniforms can be tragic flaws.
Death is a multiformed man in regalia,
and it is not the colour you had in mind.
I know how the morpheme of body is transformed into morphs that break the sky into tears, skin slitting in amerikka.
Skin is of course all that matters
when a blue ribbon streaks down asphalt,
when a thrush defeats a song,
when twigs gain life to become phasmids.