i spent a day in my room;
when i got out i was older.
i spent a day in my room—
dead flowers drop out of view.
how old are you?
(i heard what they put you through.)
there’s a daisy chain round your ankle,
braid the stems cause your mom cut the cable.
pray, be brief and vague while texting rachel on break
with marco’s number under the table.
you write, “alone again tonight, same cemetery gate,”
while outside the assigned driver waits
to take you back to a room that you despise—
nighttime knocking against the blinds.
high school eyes wide open,
a prison’s a prison,
nobody is listening.
high school eyes wide open
from prison to prison,
everybody is missing.
you’re seventeen, or twenty four hours old,
waking up every day in the room where you were born.
you’re seventeen, or twenty four hours old,
waiting every day for the jaunt that will take you home.
jansport backpack with the floral print up against the gravestone:
when you were walking there one night she wondered how to douse
for the unmarked and the uncovered.
you put your bag down to hold her hand out—
such a silly thing, the petals you left out there in the rain!
did you leave one out for julian assange?
did you leave one out for mumia abu-jamal?
did you leave one out there for berta cáceres?
the lost souls of the restaurant raids?
did i mention them already?
did i mention that—the night of the living dead,
you watch the tapes as you lay in your bed.
they want you a million miles away,
but the jaunt that will take you will break you with infinity.
you’re locked up in your own house, with cereal to eat.
so tell me:
how old are you?
three four-tops and the undercover cops
the body’s always somebody’s
two number threes, and the secret police
but a waiter waits—waits till it’s all ready
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