Kevin Coval
we used to live outside
i can't remember an april
it snowed so much
but my memory is unreliable.
is it day 5 or fifty
or have i been inside forever.
i ran to walgreens yesterday.
outside is a warzone
i have to prepare for. gloves
and a mask over a mask.
everyone is a threat.
i veer away from closeness
eye contact. others who might
be carrying.
before before the virus
and my head trauma
i used to walk unencumbered
for hours looking at people
and the scribbles they'd leave
in alleys. on a nice day
i'd skip the train and hoof
home. traverse hoods
conjuring verses i'd whisper.
walk side streets close enough
to rooms of the living i'd sometimes
smell their dinner. from all
over the planet we came
to feed and find ourselves
on these humble blocks. as the sun
showed out, the trees silhouette
against the pastel death of day.
kids bicycles turned over
and motionless, as the workers
settle into night like the sun
getting ready to get back
to work in the morning.
and in a park, fireflies gather
in a patch of what once was a prairie
of what once was indigenous land
and not land at all millennium before.
they dance like blinking christmas lights
undeterred by developer's hands
unwrapped in petroleum
and ancestors' bones.
they roam free
electric before death
they roam free