A voice mistook for stone,
jagged black fist
thrown miles through space, through
doors of dark matter.
Heard you crack open the field’s skull
where you landed.
Halo of smoke ruined the sky
and you were a body now
naked and bruised in the cratered cotton.
Could have been a meteorite
except for those strip-mined eyes, each
a point of fossilized night.
Bringing water and a blanket,
I asked, “Which of your lives is this,
third or fifth?” Your answer, blues
a breeze to soak my clothes
in tears. With my palm pressed
to your lips, hush. When they hear
you, they will want you. Beware
of how they want you;
in this town everything born black
also burns.
From Prelude to Bruise. Copyright © 2014 Saeed Jones.
drunken library 