La petite mort

You can’t help but hear the thunder of shutters, the lights. None can help now dear. Her glossy lips, her derriere against which the blond man fights. You can’t help. But hear her moaning, traced with fear, punctuate with fucks and gods, trite. None can help. Now dear— how’d you land this gig, ear to some producer, rear hot with bites? You can’t help but… Hear her laughing, drug-fueled, tears splashing onto her swollen chest. Nights, none can help. Now deer run through her dreams, Diana, the moon is lost—the sky is filled with blood. You can’t help but hear: None can help now, dear.

From "Zimbabwe"

IV. The government thought we were terrorists because we looked at a house. White people would never live in such a house, they thought. My parents were held for hours, questions, questions, questions. While my brother and sister and I cried in the car, answerless, soldiers practiced shooting sacks of corn meal. The weight, they said, the weight was accurate to judge. V. My parents read us the Passover story and I waited in bed for some dark stranger to brush my hair back and say, Yes I will take you into the dark made of mothers’ wailings, I will show you what it means to shed blood.