running ducking

limbs of trees

 

we played at bonnie

& clyde in the jungle

 

two black lovers

of bereaved heart

 

they’re out to get

us, god damn coppers

 

& the guns fire

you spin tragically

 

while the world sits

on its edge, holding breath

 

for the dead ones

shot in their bedrooms

 

in the quiet where

the sirens don’t sing.

our mothers come

outside to chastise us

 

for running with guns

even if they were toys

 

& we were in the backyard

in a summer where children

 

fall in love with teenagers

playing at adults, learning

the meaning of a trigger.

 

she fires one more time

at me and I’m every

 

black boy in first love;

my blood can’t seem

to stay in my body.