My deaths come at last
in an automobile
mangled by a still laughing
driver who couldn’t stop
drinking at the best party
ever
in a battle with an immigrant
who only wants a piece of
peace
in a hospital corridor
where blood remains low
on triage poles for the poor
on a lonely road
where cold night seeped
into my bones
under a black hood
my throat slit
because I cannot say
god the way they do
on a sidewalk
full of bullets
fired by armies or police,
or a neighbor, or a friend
who
never stopped to listen
from a sharp needle
filled with desire,
and final emptiness.
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