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Quote by Madhushree Das

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Madhushree Das

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“This neighborhood was mine first. I walked each block twice: drunk, then sober. I lived every day with legs and headphones. It had snowed the night I ran down Lorimer and swore I’d stop at nothing. My love, he had died. What was I supposed to do? I regret nothing. Sometimes I feel washed up as paper. You’re three years away. But then I dance down Graham and the trees are the color of champagne and I remember— There are things I like about heartbreak, too, how it needs a good soundtrack. The way I catch a man’s gaze on the L and don’t look away first. Losing something is just revising it. After this love there will be more love. My body rising from a nest of sheets to pick up a stranger’s MetroCard. I regret nothing. Not the bar across the street from my apartment; I was still late. Not the shared bathroom in Barcelona, not the red-eyes, not the songs about black coats and Omaha. I lie about everything but not this. You were every streetlamp that winter. You held the crown of my head and for once I won’t show you what I’ve made. I regret nothing. Your mother and your Maine. Your wet hair in my lap after that first shower. The clinic and how I cried for a week afterwards. How we never chose the language we spoke. You wrote me a single poem and in it you were the dog and I the fire. Remember the courthouse? The anniversary song. Those goddamn Kmart towels. I loved them, when did we throw them away? Tomorrow I’ll write down everything we’ve done to each other and fill the bathtub with water. I’ll burn each piece of paper down to silt. And if it doesn’t work, I’ll do it again. And again and again and— — Hala Alyan, “Object Permanence”

Poem
Author:Hala Alyan
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“I woke to the news you were dead. The what arrived before daylight; the how was agony unfolding as I dreaded my way to dusk. Unfolding against my want not to know (but I already knew, have known since I could know): officers, arrest, Black, man, twenty, video, knee, sir, back, dollar, 8, counterfeit, hands, sorry, 46, mama, please, breathe, please! Were you tired George? I feel tired sometimes. America on my neck--my lungs compressed so much they can't expand/contract--”

PoetryPoemRacismAfrican AmericansBlack Lives MatterPolice BrutalitySystemic RacismGeorge Floyd
Book:Worldly Things
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