are just as selfish as those of us who have split two parking spaces. There are those of us who label those kinds of people assholes, who think the insult or shape it to sound, and those of us who ink it to napkin before wedging the flimsy paper square underneath his wiper blade. I said “his” because, come on, let’s be real, let’s be surreal and picture a woman hogging two spots with a lifted truck. So uncouth. So parachute, her sailing to the ground wearing a blue, blue dress. Now a man arrives in a modest car who recognizes her—that poised stride, a rapid mind two cubicles from his. Same gig and yet she gets the bigger paycheck. It deflates his self-esteem, those extra dollars, her taking more, her taking more spaces than she needs. He parks reasonably. So considerate. So swan— his gliding toward the office building in a blue, blue dress—the company uniform.
Mind If I
In the wake of the Senate confirmation process, my approach to life also remains the same. I will continue to heed the message of Matthew 25. – Judge Kavanaugh, swearing-in ceremony
Mind if I open this bag of marshmallows and twist one into each ear, mishear the new justice to the Court? Quote—
In the ache of the sunlit confiscation process, my encroach to life also retains the shame. I will continue to screed the vestige of my view when we fight—
end quote. Mind if I speak on behalf of these black-robed men raised Catholic, decades of Christ whispering to unmarshmallowed ears?
Sorry, ladies. We are just reminding you that Jesus spies on your vagina.
Pardon me while I remove their mouthpiece—toss it into a pool, toss the pool into an ocean and the ocean onto the moon beside the Sea of Tranquility, prop a lifeguard tower on that empty shore with someone leaning against the wooden rail—a woman, a woman on the moon, only herself to rescue.
No End to the Things Made Out of Human Talk
With language, with all the talking we talked, and the blue wall of protocol, we protected each other, discussed what was to be said in separate rooms, uttered into tape recorders, in the books. What I recall: a black teenager stood still, confounded as to why he was surrounded by us. Some called him Fits the Description, others The Suspect. Our squad cars made him shimmer, made him flame. When he turned, a shadow from his unzipped hoodie opened across his chest, and one of us fired, kept firing, kept the sound arriving. We had the wherewithal to tell him afterward he felt threatened, the way he had lunged. These were our talking points: lunged, threatened. In offices, unused interrogation rooms, behind drywall, concrete, brick, windows shuttered closed, we corroborated, tweaked the script. Relief unfurled throughout the precinct when we heard there was to be no indictment. Now at night I see the boy sprawled, see him clear, cheek to pavement, my conscience glowing like blood under luminol, grows brighter, too radiant for sleep.
David Hernandez’s most recent collection of poetry is Dear, Sincerely (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2016). His awards include an NEA Literature Fellowship, two Pushcart Prizes, and the Kathryn A. Morton Prize in Poetry. David teaches creative writing at California State University, Long Beach.
Header photo by Roman Belogorodov, courtesy Shutterstock.