Sandra Bland

I still feel queasy.

My first thoughts, though, whenever I write these troubles down, go elsewhere.

How many cops I know.

Friends, family.

Good people. I think of them.

I'm still queasy. I almost feel like I want to throw up.

They have children, most of them raise them right.

They are respectful and, though some of them I know can be brusque, I like them.

I'm still looking at pictures, hashtags, major sites, the alt websites, too.

There's a picture where she looks haggard, in that orange jumpsuit.
She's missing the smile from every other picture of her online.
She looks hollow.
Where did she go?

There's this thing where you're all lumped together.

You're identified one way, and there are bad seeds.
Not even bad seeds.
Seeds choked in poor soil.

That have grown up into twisted adults, contorting and biasing the rest of our realities.

I have this feeling, about halfway down my chest.

I'm queasy.

I'm really upset about this.

She's a normal lookin woman in most of what I see online.

She's clearly someone who speaks her mind.

I know a lot of women who speak their mind.

I don't know that many black women.

I'm still queasy.

There's no denial that it was just a failure to signal a turn?

They don't deny that it was more than that?

That she's expected to get out of her car for that?

Daylight.

It's daylight.

That a cigarette matters.

Are you serious?

You don't have to immediately do anything they say, right?

Anything? They aren't human?

It's just this deep feeling, it sits under everything else I think about for the last hour.

What's a bad seed. Is it twisted poisoned soil?

I want to be the one who talks back.

But apparently.

I'm queasy.

Enjoys pressing the undersides of mugs and glasses on fabric to leave behind wet rings of condensation on clothing.

Words dribbled onto canvas.
Fears and childish thoughts rippled outward from churning inner space while the world is quiet.
Never quite sure where the line is.
Knowing the line is just a construct.
Categories, buckets, simplicities for the sake of making life easier.

Wanting to navigate those more complex waters, seeing wonder and satisfaction.
Thrilled with the universe.
Nervous about drowning.
A dull hum slowly resonating.
Like the noise of the grain of timbers softened and finished for tabletops and chairs and counters.

Flipping the sweatshirt on and off again.
Twirling the smooth fabric inside out and outside in and the moment of warmth.
Against the moment of those sleeves just that inch too far.
Those sleeves, to toy with them, tug at them, pull them back.
Or use them to cover the fist, wrapped and tucked away. Safe.

It's a moment.
Dribbled out across the pavement like coffee dripping from a cracked travel mug.
No longer useful, after only a year.
Not even a mocha now. Coffee with some half and half and sugar.
Stopped getting whip cream every time on mochas.

That was forever ago, and that was never planned.
Pressing some more condensation into pant legs, the darkening temporary moisture.
Gone back into the air, or whatever it does so rapidly.
Pushing the sleeve back, settled hands in the old familiar manner.