by Hanif Willis-Abdurraqib
like in the field
slow motion
the grass dying underfoot
someone turns their face
back right at the last
minute before the train leaves
the sun sets
the flood returns hungry and merciless and without words
all is forgiven
speaking of words
I tell my therapist you can’t spell
heartbreak without art
and she doesn’t laugh but it’s true look
at how I whip my arms in the empty
apartment again to the song
from the movie where someone walked back
through the door they once walked out of
look at how I keep playing
the b-sides and skipping the hits
look at how I build a shrine to afterthoughts
I know this isn’t therapy
I know that we aren’t even friends
but tell me what it meant
when as a boy
I sat at the mouth
of the gumball machines
with no quarters in my pockets
twisting each metal diamond
and hoping for a miracle
tell me what it meant
that when the first ball dropped
my hands were not ready
and I watched it roll in slow
motion down the mall floor
until another child more eager
than I was
parted their palms like they were catching
the last living dove
tell me what it meant that I did not weep
when the child pushed the gumball
between their teeth with their eyes on me
the entire time
tell me what it means now
that one cannot say heartbreak without the lips
making a soft circle of themselves at the opening
of break as they also might to beckon a kiss
is it that memory is a field
with endless graves
