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It could’ve been the stiff crack
of bone or rapid gunfire
exploding bits of red in the air.
Because only for animals is it
natural to marinate for hours
in postmortem under sun.
The lions rip the gazelles
of themselves. They know
how sweet, the blood is.
Copyright © 2016 by A. H. Jerriod Avant. This poem originally appeared in The Rumpus, Spring 2016. Used with permission of the author.
if I could be somewhere
I wasn’t I would be there
or I would have already
paid that place some
cold and charitable visit.
if you knew how wealthy
I wasn’t you would run.
I cannot remember
oil on linen, 120” x 90” by Kehinde Wiley, 2012
in the frame stood all that could be done.
a dash of blood on a long and ready blade.
a justice this particular day made late. one
head without a body, hanging from the other
body. a sign to be read, not spoken. a wish
to be wished and not had. the problem is
I’m docked at a lake that
the people don’t attend.
Machete on my hip to
make a devil cough up
blood dust and light.
Hungry for ruins of
an afternoon of anything
wild and willing to stick