zig zag

it is a saturday when Margaux and I plan what we are wearing to pride
we laugh about tie-dying tshirts
dream of ways to drape our bodies in technicolor
we do not think about the way the dye would stain our hands rainbow
the way it bleeds in the wash.

it is a thursday when my group of friends,
mostly gay,
gathers to make pancakes and celebrate
beginnings and endings.
One brown boy, three brown girls, and the son of greek immigrants take turns
pushing each other through the aisles of the costco.
In the evening, maddie and I joke about getting married for fafsa money.
cherry syrup drips down our chins,
neither of us think about dying that day.
not once.

it is a sunday when I cannot pronounce the word safety
it is a sunday, when I wake up to 20 of my brothers and sisters dead
it is a sunday when 50 of my people are gunned down in orlando
when my hands can’t stop shaking
when I start planning my own funeral

when I remember, a June day just like this.
Charleston 2015.
when a different asylum was invaded,
and my mother spent the day crying.

The stained glass
of my holy spaces
has been shattered,
fire alarms go off in my sleep.

Everyone get out of pulse and keep running.
Everyone who has a pulse, keep running.