Riding the White Van

Plucked like chicken ready for boiling

hogtied, we roll at each bend

skin grazing skin, bones touching

we snap like kindling.

 

Pain bangles our wrists

we hear the gears churn

beneath our feet, carrying us

back to the wounded womb.

 

We dream of the pillowcases left

behind, gold teeth, smudged seals

on missing deeds, a whiff of

turmeric, we dream.

 

We won’t pray 

for a Devine intervention

we know

time is longer than rope.


Published in Chicago Quarterly Review - Issue 24

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