TAMIR RICE

I try to translate the Aramaic of the sky.
The violet streaks of dusk

that frame our youngest daughter
drawn in two-point perspective —

she is a you & I, separate
& sublime. Her voice a constant why.

The video she found online, in her head
on repeat. Why did the policeman shoot the boy?

she wants to know. He was playing.
She climbs into your lap.

Around our daughter’s lips, chewed bits
of white petal. She’s been eating clover.

The lilac bush scythes
against the wooden fence. In the hive

of the wind, there is something
sickly sweet blowing in.

The swing hangs itself slowly in the dark.

Terrence Hayes, 2018