Snapshots of the Body as a Bomb
by Nishat Ahmed
September 12th, 2001: the cop
at my elementary school says, I’m sorry
I can't let you in. He means to say
You are brown, and dangerous.
*
My lungs holler to god the first time
I kiss you, barefoot and drenched in Chicago summer,
scream thank you. Your body curving into mine,
marble against copper.
*
At a stop sign the cop exits his vehicle,
hand on his hip, on his gun, I cork my throat,
thrust my hands out the window. He says
Is this your car? He means to say Give me a reason to shoot.
*
By this hour even night noises have gone
to sleep. I press a palm to my chest,
count the thumps, and wait for either
the eyes to shut or the heart to miss a beat.
*
Two weeks following the election,
a patron says I don’t want to be served
by your kind. Says I want to speak to the manager.
Surprise: I am the manager.
*
In sleep you whisper my name, hand squeezing
my shoulder, your voice soft as your sheets.
Even in the dark your skin glows, unlike mine—
just a thread in the fabric of night.
*
At seven I hunch over in a tub, nails
scrubbing until skin gives,
think I’ve finally struck gold, go look
in the mirror: still brown, now bleeding.
*
The curtain pulls back to the sold out pit.
No one expects a face like mine
center stage. My drummer hits the first beat of the kick drum.
My mouth opens every lung in the room.
*
TSA selects me for the fourth time this month,
motions me to a booth. The agent says
take off your clothes. He means to say take off your skin.
I stand there naked, weeping.