"A Study of Police Brutality"

    Photo by louder on Flickr, licensed under the Creative Commons.

    The plane swoops and swings in the gray blindfold
    Free from the sun’s rebounds. I spool my kite
    (Whose tissue paper’s paint bleeds fresh raindrops),
    Towards the wind-spun propellers. Its tail
    (The bows of cardinal) falls, tumbling
    Against my contours, freezing my escape.

    The sirens punched out screams. Close. Red-white-blue
    Flashes of lights. The police ringed round me.
    I was that lion cub, merely meowing
    When iron bars were wrought. Whim’s harsh restraint.
    The faces had noses, mouths, and eyes above badges
    Starred with strings of firm, black runs of numbers
    They were the intruders. “ Let me go.” “Move,”
    Their words had burned red decrees on my back,
    Black lines. The men with holsters roared and clawed
    With pink fingernails. Push. My tears fell down
    My craggy face, cascading….Silent, strong.
    Dripping into the cracks where grass leaflets
    Brushed, teased my nose. Concrete smoking my lips.
    (The crowd carrying books cried aloud
    But stayed their distance…) Night- cells detaching,
    Like stones felled by a beating whip of fists.

    If my feet could race from New York to Paris,
    I would leap to freedom like the Eiffel
    Tower descends hundred meters to ground.
    And, throwing myself off the caged windows,
    I would believe as I spiraled down past
    The roots of bush beneath, launching into
    A fine brocade of ivy (soil beneath pulsing
    with seeds stretching into wispy flowers.)
    I would then join the flowers, spreading my arms
    To the velveteen burgundy petals,
    Losing my memories in tight embrace.

    When spindly thorns prick my glimpse of reality,
    I fall eyeless like my bright kite above
    And hit my present concrete of seconds…
    The plane chases sunset’s fleeting fireflies
    Westward and lands in shadowed cobwebs.
    But I lie grounded and I cannot run
    Any farther. My lips blow the dew
    Clinging to rose petals away…away…
    The sirens near with their stark barks, and I
    Transform to but a withered stem of thought.


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