Song of the Wanderer

Excerpt from upcoming collection Who Owns This Body

There is nowhere to hide from the sun,
nowhere to hide from the opulent sky
and its white withering jewels,

nowhere to hide to close your eyes
and take a shit. Or weep.
There is nowhere to hide from glaring eyes—
you do not belong here.

I am free to wander
boulevard to boulevard,
but there is nowhere for me to rest.

I’ve entered an alternate plane of existence
where I go unnoticed.
Not transparent like a ghost, not a weightless shadow,
just a brown-skinned nothing among the grass and trees.
I say hello,
and they just keep walking.

If you disturb a neighborhood,
a man comes to ask you if you’re lost.
He won’t help you get to where you’re going,
but “you better go.”

The daily commuters,
burdened by the blight of their childless labyrinths,
don’t look much better than you,
but they have something: a destination.

You stand, a solitary figure,
a blemish, palms held out,
and they pray for genocide against the meek.

There is nowhere to work, I tell them,
but they just keep passing around me,
hive of bees
making honey of the sun
while I make dust for nothing.