In sleep, your sister finds a charred body in the crowd. You run through an unfamiliar town, looking for an emergency room, but by the time you reach it, the body is reduced to fragments in your hands.
Is this the end of our Dream?
The morning is mild, I walk down country roads painted in snowmelt, I stop to look at how the sun streams through barren tree branches, it wakes sleeper cells in me, genetic poetry from a life in the North, the stories all revolve around an innate longing to turn toward the sun. Don't tell me not to stare straight into its life-giving force, my eyes were made to absorb it.
January meanders slowly through the days, as it does, you try to take a page out of its book and place it in your own: meander, slowly, you'll get there eventually so long as you keep walking.
America, this is quite serious.
America, I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
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