after Christopher Gilbert
Staring down the barrel of a black gun—
the policeman’s silhouette on the other side—
I forget I’m no longer just a boy. I forget
my shoulders, now grown pulleys, and the ropes
are flying. I forget the dish-soap slipperiness
of sleep as it falls from my face, which is to say
I forget how this encounter ends. I forget what
shade of brown I am in this part of the state until
I turn to see two very brown men stooped
over an ’88 Reliant K engine screaming
in the middle of the night. I forget from where
starts the neon blue that cuts through crisp
in every replay of this moment. What color is fear
starts the neon blue that cuts through crisp
in every replay of this moment. What color is fear
