I saw
that his
broken crucifix
was lain atop his forehead cold
boldly smoldering in a pile of greenish silver...
and his arms were spread wider than archangels wings
...feet pointed towards the gloom
a swollen December moon
our little brother...
Raheem.
His dreams are now dead.
Slipping away with the bullets
James peered over his Park Terrace roof
and wondered when last he slept
without murder
Beneath the Friendship bench
red streaks’ve burned black.
his
dried blood
thins
with
the sirens
too late to much
matter
or send
the Cold City
back into Her fog
It creeps
heavier than hearts
and older...
through the Slotta House--
the Southside’s
broken stop signs
mean
nothing.
We...
from Lowe Street
Are
starving
to death
to see
our peace
to eat
and
be
Alive.
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