money runs like blood through the big american corpse

my big american corpse takes the subway chews

the same piece of gum too long like cud like cows

we mill in the smoke between tracks eyes wide

and sightless our big american mouths follow hunger

to hunger won’t see the plainclothes cop until it's too

late won’t see him put his hands on a dirty arm

won’t remember where that arm goes when it

disappears into the non-place of a blue and white

van sent to that other island where they take bodies

we fear as if a person could vanish in a burst of white

light as if a person were a problem we could solve

do you believe we are innocent like animals

like characters inserted for comic relief do you believe

when the last brown face disappears from your block

you will finally feel safe do you believe to feel safe

is the same as happiness do you believe everything you’re told

did you believe you’d lose nothing when you asked

the machine to think for you to write your wedding vows

and grocery lists to tell you when to smile when to jump

how high did you start to believe it could not turn

its face back to us that it would not show its teeth to quiet

beasts fawning at its feet it’s hard for me to say ‘us’

even when I know it’s the right word even when I know

I’m the ghost in the shell we’re the ghosts it’s one shell

and just when I believe I can’t stand another moment

alive moving like oil like money through this lifeless body

my body tries to survive a man clips my shoulder

he steadies me a thin hand dusty knuckles

he smiles before he turns to face the little black box

from his pocket heat of his hand still on my shoulder

place our eyes met in the air human easy

place where his dark american face meets my pale

american face meets wind pouring out hot from the tunnel

and the man waits next to me now his beautiful dark cheeks

and his beautiful dark eyes move beneath their purple lids

and the nod and nod of his head to what I can't

hear the two of us wait for the train and the two of us

wait like fledglings on a high branch for the moment his face

turns back to my face and there is no face left between us

————————————–

Birch Wiley called us from Brooklyn, NY.

voicemailpoems.org/submit/

facebook.com/voicemailpoems

x.com/voicemailpoems

bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social

instagram.com/voicemailpoems