Late for Dinner

I want to write away
the injustice of
four police cars pulled up behind
two black men in a Chevy
lights flashing
while I brought dinner
to a friend.

I want to write until the
list of shoulds stops flashing
through my mind
calls to mind a slideshow of
reactions to the world – too comfortable
and soft against my skin.

I worry about not practicing the piano
and who to date
while someone is raped, murdered, pulled up off
the ground
knees having buckled
because their town has been decimated
by a product of the United States.

How can I reconcile being in a body
whose ancestors helped build
My parts are not my choice
my skin keeps it all in –
a mere vessel for my voice and

I want to feel our atoms collide
where solid things are less true –
the world under a microscope has no
race or gender
and no fucking wall
between the two of us – worlds away
but not separate
not really.

as you fall to your knees in prayer,
I burry my face in my dog’s fur
as you worry about feeding your kids
I throw away moldy raspberries

But as you miss someone you love,
I miss mine, too
and as you wish you weren’t so judged
I feel that
I feel that, too.

I can’t write it away,
not after all,
but here is the vessel for my voice
a body that can move to action
pen to paper
feet to ground
next time
next time
I won’t just drive by,
late for dinner.