Stand to Death

Well, “to stand to death”
sometimes means precisely this:
to be skinned alive.

But how can this be, when you yourself are
the furious death incarnate
in world news, a strip of skin
on a paperknife,
between pages of treaties,
condensed pain that
ties other people’s intestines in knots,
trending tweets, age-restricted videos,
a prostrate, immobile body,
face blurred,
that emits only sporadic
animal gasps, dehumanizing;
a survivor’s night terrors, convulsive vomiting,
sensitive content.

But you’re also this:
a newborn’s shrill, startled cry,
running through tall grass,
mother’s laugh,
a sore throat, skipping school
the first woman you came with,
the woman you got pregnant,
a high July sky,
the sharp memory of home’s
morning light,

concealed masculine vulnerability
the calloused shell of a wartime handshake,
jokes that are funny and not
something precise and unspeakable
about love
alcohol on a congested throat,
the shared honor of dying.
A name, a face.

What’s it like to know somewhere there are
evenings of twinkling light
boats with heated decks,
laughter and kisses,
kids splashing in shallow water,
somewhere as in really close,
on the other side
of the blood puddles.

Pull harder on the country’s black flesh
border tourniquet, the hemorrhaging’s becoming critical.

Everybody will say, “he’s me.”
And nobody will imagine what it’s really like.
The way clenched teeth crumble,
the way consciousness fades.
Nobody comes here whole
just to be dismembered.

Good morning, greedy lord of carnage,
feeder of dogs,
piecemeal, I’ve approached you.
But here is my name. Now tell me, give it a try,
what’s my story.