As soon as I unlock my phone,

out falls a tiny mother

asking her grown son to call

                                                          back when he finds the time plz,

out falls the strained voice of a debt

                  collector after several

                  attempts to reach you,

                                                                  out falls a school

                                              with a shooter & everything,

                  out falls a riot, out falls a child

texting another child how scared she is

          
                                        from under her desk

        with all the curtains

drawn, out falls

                                an election,

                                a special election,

                                a compromised election,
 
                                & another smoked quartz riot,

out falls a pair of unconcerned liquid gold legs at a hotel pool,

out falls Tommy Le’s pen,

                   Sandra Bland’s signal light

                   a stack of Alton Sterling’s bootleg CDs, out falls

                   a powerful man awash in disgrace & another terrible man

                                                                                           & another terrible man

                                                                                           & Jesus —

                             until out falls Janelle Monaé,

        plentiful & perfect

                                               -ly formed.

At what point, exactly, does grief start?

                                                                                   This onslaught of self-

                                                                                   portraits in convex mirrors—

                                                                                   each moment more upside down

                                                                                   was to know what time it was.

                                                      pǝʇuɐʍ I llɐ ⅋

                    ˙sɐʍ ʇᴉ ǝɯᴉʇ ʇɐɥʍ ʍouʞ oʇ sɐʍ

Dujie Tahat is our Poet in Residence for December. A version of this poem originally appeared in Sakura Review, vol. IX.

Previously: &.