Under bikes strewn stationary,
Trapped in rainbow weave and white polyester,
She lays in wait: blood pulsing, bones aching,
Her mind a mess of disease,
Hands longing for the devils’ orders,
And her body shifting around ghosts.
Under those lids lies rot and riot,
Corpses split open,
Traffic accidents and murders,
Brutal beatings and her fists,
Again and again,
The feel of soft flesh, hard muscle.
She’s seen her sister die,
And seen her mother driven to shoot,
Strangers at her feet,
Bloodied and battered,
Turn to faces she knows,
Tortured visages of phantom dead.
And she chills at the sight,
But fights through the fighting,
Fights through the fighting,
Calms down the sea that storms inside,
Visions that swirl through the currents of the day,
And sweeps to settle at the bottom of her muddied mind.
And after the fighting she sleeps.