Sarah Kay

And to know that something that I had made had had an effect on another person, let alone someone so much older and cooler, was like a lightning bolt.

Sure.

A man plows his truck through the crowd, celebrating on the nice boardwalk, where my

once love, once insisted, that we could make it all the way through a triple-layer chocolate mousse until we were both so full we could not even bear to lick our spoons.

I text a friend, where are you, which is code for, please, tell me these new deaths are not yours this time.

If I scroll up, I will see the same text I sent her back when Paris was exploding a few moments or weeks ago.

Farther up, the same text she sent me when I was in lockdown in Jakarta as the man across town pulled the pin from his grenade.

Not Yours, This Time is a song that plays so often I cannot help but know the words.

Are you okay?

Is the hook.

Are you okay?

Is code for we are not okay.

But please, remind me you are breathing.

Back home, the black men and women I love look into mirrors and wonder if they are lost teeth in the mouth of an impatient god.

Are you okay?

I text, impotent.

Please, remind me you are breathing.

I am scared, is not a good enough reason to not get out of bed.

The world is falling apart, is not a good enough one either.

I ask my mother if growing older means one wound piled upon another until we are just a collection of hurt, but she insists, No!