Life Lost

My dear Cecil,

You should not have died like that.
You should have been roaming free
until old age
and gravity
bound you to the earth
never to roam again.

I did not know you.
I did not know your name,
or your status,
but I was still angered
by your killing.

And then I thought:

Why is it so much easier
to feel anger and disgust
at the murder of a lion
by a narcissistic dentist –

than by the countless murders
by state sanctioned violence?

That lion was served on a gilded platter,
but I don’t think the dentist ate him (I hope?).

(Insert name here) was not literally eaten
when (insert possessive pronoun here) body crumpled
under the weight of racism.

But both stories are consumed.
One ravenously,
(all at the table agree this lion meat is unjust,
as they grind it to paste in their clenching jowels)
and one as a post dinner mint
(eh. I guess I’ll take one for the drive home).

Food for thought.


Bathroom Revelation

Here’s my piece on HerStory! Please follow this new blog, it’s going to be amazing!

I don’t remember how old I was. Eight or nine possibly. Some details didn’t stick in this guilty memory. But I remember the restaurant. It was a cheap pizza chain. I remember the smell of heat-lamp pizza and wilted pink salad with ranch. I remember the pleasure of seeing greasy wadded up paper napkins on empty beige plates next to half-drunk red plastic cups. Empty plates meant full tummies. And of course I remember distinctly the stained industrial carpet under the tables and chairs where I crouched and hid in mortification.

Blue collar establishments like this were our regular dinner destinations when I was a kid. They had cheap food and arcade games, and the dirty looks from paying customers aimed at parents of loud and messy children were limited because everyone here had loud and messy children. It was a community of worn out parents at the end of…

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