Cops shoot army vet dead; kin say he was unarmed, had mental issues.
—GMA News, Philippines, April 20, 2020
Like every poem that starts with a symphony
of gunfire—I stand still like a bullet
loaded in the barrel. My fingers refusing
the trigger. In this version, I walked through
the city while it burns with screaming
neon lights. How a brown boy can disguise
his own voice from a swarm of melody
that stings like napalm but cradle
the echo—the many, many sounds
I cannot escape. The names
my father chased away so I can learn
not to say them aloud. How like moths,
I am drawn to things
that destroy me. That on the other side
of this country, beneath the uncountable
stars but still shattered like glasses—the air
heavier than amputated limbs. A brother
dragging his own brother. He watches
his torso dangle like a dying leaf. Pitch black
he sings hymns closer to a held
breath than a prayer. We know this—
the soldier on the TV. He was pulling
Winston cigarettes from his pocket
the way he handles a .38 caliber for a quickfire
of smokes. Perhaps it reminds him of home,
of his brothers, of his name. The screaming
whine of assault rifles. He steps
forward to the sound he has
always known. An answered prayer
for his ghosts. Lightning quick he dropped
naked the way a shattered shell
unhinges from a bullet. Like every poem,
like every man called for wars
not his own, this poem too, ends
with a scope, as if anyone is still looking
for shadows, specters inside us and
the only thing I can do is to kneel—
beg (never pray) that nothing moves.
