They Keep Bullets that Killed Their Brothers in Their Pockets

Of course I can’t write. Of course I can’t create. I don’t have pockets filled with brothers, that others think are full of bullets. I am unarmed with historical ammunition. I am the bullet imbedded in your country… inside of your brother. I am the reason he has fallen and you carry him now in your pocket, near to your chest, counting the breaths you appreciate. The breaths I do not understand. It is no surprise to me that I cannot write. I will not understand by writing or reading or visiting.

The turtles where I live do not possess poetic metaphors. My hands do but they are not words that are easy for me to put back together.

I do not fill the pages I dream of. I do not write the stories I see in my sleep, the master narratives that keep me awake, the dialogues that confuse my inner monologue. The characters that fill my day do not travel to the pages. Instead I keep them in my pocket. My one pocket. The pocket that you fill with dead family members renders my leg useless and my hands numb. My eyes are filled with the family members you have run out of. My mouth is filled with adjectives that embarrass me. They do not rhyme.

I stay away from the rain. I stay away from the sun. I am dying and no one has room in their pockets for me.