Sometimes, we say God when what we really mean
is help. But the fear is—that light’s main property
is indifference. The time it takes one
bullet to pierce the skin is not the time
it takes the light travelling 94 million
miles from a white-hot star
to arrive at this point on his brown skin. And yet,
here they are—tearing into him—like a thirst
for faith, like dueling religions. Here
and not here. The bullet and the light. This
is how the new grief travels, blackboys
digitized and hanging—light years away.
Sorrow is as long as a news cycle.
Cover Art by Rebecca Pyle
