horses and hand grenades – Susannah Betts
lines around the white man’s mouth
hard. Like new England asphalt. Moist. Humid. Breaking apart in clumps like
cancer-hair. Lead in the paint. Graphite lodged in the skin. Scraping
equations into, not looking at the answer. Two cities, three cities, four. Red Alabama
dust on the Nikes, Bangladeshi salt—an orange paste a war paint an appropriation
of a battleground state a crying cultureless in the drying-out grass.
white people so dehydrated.
pupils askew, watching clocks, walking dogs
tables laminated and reflective
like talking race from pinched lips
sucking the IV.