for Tamir
12 is the cinder: bright-
eyed boy w/pellet gun,
the coffin of plastic things,
(draw & aim
draw & aim).
Face immortalized
in perpetual smile, the soft
space a soccer ball lands. Swear
it was  an accident,
so boys say, same
ones crying
That’s the same thing you had on yesterday!
What’s wrong?
Ya Momma ain’t got no money?
How low we are,
target
2 seconds after cruiser
exit. Memory—
your insides escaping
through the hole
of a single slug. Ghost,
missing, black
helium rising,
angel wings fixed
to the back of your hoodie, ascension
on a random
city block.
It is November.
Cleveland is cold
as Cleveland often is.
The story is just that:
12-year-old you
falsely armed, the cops
falsely alarmed.
from dying in the scarecrow’s armsFind it in the library
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