And mirrors
Then
woke and showered and traced the frosted shroud thinking, “Of course,”
realizing that in Michael Jackson’s dreams he was white too and hadn’t a clue
that memories crumble like bones and time pierces like arrows and the pulleys
of Newton’s Laws triumph and Buster Douglas drops because Tyson’s uppercuts are
black and red and fuming like Hubert Selby Jr.’s acne and when the terror seeps
in, carves tracks and valleys of death in your face, you can punch the mirror
if you don’t like what’s there.
--Alex Z. Salinas
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