like mosquitos in the age of
prisons and cis black men like
zappers, like a blood body burst
from man-made lightning. Zap.
Someone says Die you little fucker
and people laugh, and people let
people laugh because it’s
easier that way. Not to think
of the electric bodies trapped in
the zapper’s prison or the son
beating down on her, the son that will
melt her insides inside the cage. You
don’t turn off the zapper. You don’t
release the mosquitos barely breathing
at the bottom of the zapper’s cage. You
don’t think about the girls melting under
the sons because it’s easier that way.
Because once you got read by a black girl
like a bite and you scratched yourself
bloody tryna get your allyship clean.
Because the black girls got themselves
zapped, caged, trapped in the first place
they must have been looking
for trouble. Because their melt
is less tragic than our itch.
Because the buzz in your ear
was bitter T and you catch more
humans with honey. Something
sweet like laughter. Something
sticky to glue the jaw