Brionne Janae

~June 18, 2015

when only birds toll the hour

and barely a hint of our star tints the sky,

I stir breathless and warm,

too foggy to know the cause. asthma maybe,

anxiety my little incubus, or just an arm

resting at my neck. if ever this gasping were enough

to kill, I pray not to wake. death can’t be so bad

without the presence of the dying.

fingers wrapped about my inhaler, I squeeze the trigger once,

twice. life’s breath forced from the chilled rigid mouth

down into the canals of my throat.

how much easier to take a life than to call it back.

at sunrise I wake to nine dead in an AME church.

were I a poet who spoke with the sun

I’d have only curses, why wake me,

why wake me for this.

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