a switchblade, he imagined
he Excalibured from granite
not a pocket of lint. On the bus
he follows you, mutters about country
No room for you / in his country.
His heckling decorates. Go back to your
drapes down your chest, a snake-stole
flicking you with faux tongues
tasting for fear. Praying, you reach
down to have something
to grip, to close a fist around.
It’s not a Hail Mary you find
but an orange,
round and cool, unbruised yet.
You cup the sweet rind,
heavy with pulp, ripe
with the word
country. Not with blood
but the weight of bones
buried deep in time
like seeds,
the kind needing fire
to blister apart, to burn.
For a moment, you return
to the top of the mountain
where you were born
fire-baptized, where bullets were
butterflies that floated high
in the air
where the static crack
of their wings drove you north,
on the stained glass
backs of monarchs, migrating
above the pew-pop,
the rat-tat-tat.
You smell blood
orange now between
your fingers.
You touch the bitter
slick to your lips,
an intercession.
Because you won’t
let him, here, unfurl
his heart of darkness
over yours, no—
because this is yours
now. This bus, this fighting
cage, this second-hand
land is your land now
even if the terroir taints
the other cheek red. Listen,
you want to say to him.
You’ve known bullet and blade
been coarsened by wars
started by men hollower than thou
and you know the only truth—
Knife’s edge is sharp
but it won’t cut
through rind.
