the walls here are thin
because we can't afford
to build them any stronger.

we can't afford to spend money
to test smoke detectors,
or to build new fire escapes.

if this building
goes up in flames,
we have accepted that
we will all burn with it.

we can't afford to
spend money on
our children's safety.

but even if we could,
would it matter?

money can buy teddy bears
and pretty flower bouquets.

money can beautify
our roadside memorials,

but lit candles and
decorated street corners
can't bring back the
children who died there.

every night, I hear the sirens
of an ambulance speeding
through our streets.

sirens are the lullaby
that this city sings to our children,
and to our children's children.

if I didn't hear them
when I close my eyes,
I would be afraid.

because no sirens
does not mean that
there is no crime.

no sirens means only
that no one has come
to clean up the scene.

someone told me once,
that in suburbia,

in the neighborhoods
where the houses are
built with thick walls
and strong foundations,

and the neighbors fight
over who can buy
the fanciest car,

and those fights end
with snarky comments
instead of gunshots,

their children
fall asleep listening
to the sound of crickets
instead of sirens.

in those neighborhoods,
they do not raise their children
to be afraid of drugs
and death and violence.

they raise their children
to be afraid of our children.

our children are buried
six feet beneath the ground,

before their children
even learn the meaning
of the word "death."

The dawn red as blood
Violence all over the field
Fight for peace they say

i.
when my father's pride lands
on my shoulder, digging it's claws
into my collarbone; demanding
blood in return for his
acknowledgement
of my
existence;
I learn to receive his broken
version of what love is
without protest.

ii.
when my mother's judgment
runs it's fingertips down the
curvature of my spine, searching
for weaknesses in my
posture, pose,
and figure;
my weight, skin
and fissures;
I learn to endure her
backhanded version of love  
without complaint.


iii.
when my younger brother's anger
comes over for dinner, makes itself
a guest in my first apartment;
and cusses out my duty
as an older sister to
even give a **** about him
in the first place?
Tells me I've failed
at loving him properly?
I learn to cry without
really crying
at all.

iv.
you think you've taught yourself how to be ice;
only to realized you're just shattered water.

“you ain’t a man until you’re given a gun.”
he said. but I knew better.
giving a boy a gun
doesn’t make him a man.
it makes him a boy with a gun.

my hands were made for pens, not glocks.
I told him his were too.
he laughed and said,
“nah, my hands are made the same
as every other boy on this block.
you cut off my finger, it’s still gon’ bleed.”

I tried to argue but he said,
“these hands steal ****.
money, jewelry, clothes.
hell, these hands steal lives!”

and he was right about that.
he had the same dirt on his hands
that any other boy around here had.

still, I think his hands
were made for pens, not glocks.
maybe he would’ve picked up a pencil
if his hands hadn’t gotten
so used to holding a gun.

he was nineteen.
he was young and angry
and ready to fight,
and he didn’t know exactly why,
but he knew he had to be.

the streets here are where people
disappear when it gets dark,
and where no one asks questions
when the sun comes up.

there are no flowers
growing next to the sidewalk.
here, there are bags of crack
and gold chains and Cuban cigars.
there are plants here, but no flowers.

I was taught that here,
they don’t follow laws,
but they need to follow rules.

most rules here are unwritten.
instead, they are ingrained
into the street’s children,
a mantra that you could die
for not remembering.

he said, “if I die,
it’s gon’ be sprawled out on concrete.
no way I’m going down
without a fight.”

here, they are still fighting wars
that ended years ago everywhere else.

here, they grow up without
mothers and fathers.
they learn to feed themselves
as soon as they no longer
need a baby bottle.

here, it is strange
to not join in on the violence.
it is strange to not participate
in drive-by shootings.
it is strange to not want revenge.

here, strange is dangerous.
things are the way that they are
and this is the way they have always been.

here, he was any other
nineteen-year-old boy.
here, they would say he died naturally.
he stepped a little too far into view
and a bullet struck him in the right spot.
or the wrong spot,
depending on how you see it.
quick and almost painless for him,
but that hurt moved on to everyone else.

here, there are no rights and no wrongs.
things are not good or bad.
things simply are.

his mama sobbed when
she heard what happened.
she cried for him, but also
for every other boy on the block.

she cried for the boy
who ended her son’s life,
because she knew
he wasn’t any different
than any other boy here.

she cried for all the mothers
who lost their sons,
and for all the children
born into this life.

here, they don’t have to die
for you to lose them.
this life takes them from you,
dead or alive.

he was a friend,
and a brother, and a son.
he could’ve been
a writer, or an athlete,
or a ******* astronaut
for all I know.

but in the end,
he was only a boy with a gun.
here, they call that a man.

Once upon a Christmas eve,
A family sat round a fire
Dad’s he’s late, he’s blaming Steve
Some cables needed to be rewired
A house he finds,
Is full of smiles,
So off he goes on his way.
Grabs baubles from the attic,
and also, grandmothers ****** investigation files

The child, eager with a sparkly blue notebook, rushes to peek inside
Crowe, it reads, Age 33, with thirty-three stabs to her side.
Oh how dramatic, Oh how fun what a wonderful thing he had brought
As seen on tv and on the big screen but never in this way before.
She stared at the words and pondered and scribed and found a new area of thought
Thinking of A Woman Dead!
But not that way of course, in the fun kind of way.
Didn’t think of the dead woman.

Now and then, the blue notebook sparkles out of the corner of my eye
I cradle the crumpled pages in my arms, the notes that I took.
The notes, cold, combined with my father’s colder memories
The good Damsel murdered by a bad ex-lover
An unfortunately common situation.
Another woman lost and alone,  
Another statistic.
Oh well.

orange smoke fills the air, like mist
goons and traitors occupy all tables
a small bar, downtown, silent quarter
whole ones and racks, bagged, airtight

the zippers of the bottega shine golden
24 k, 24/7, creatures of the night who
are made of struggle, gore and greed
deception and loyalty: the brotherhood

hour of the thieves, year of white marble
350 million a year, a neeeedy enterprise
sick profit, blank sheets floating loosely
shark collar and tattoos, loaded *******

sounds of the past in an air breeze, secretly
old butch is swallowing a paper message
leave no traces, mind dem ears and eyes
wild roses and escalades, the night glows