Natan Last
for Eric Garner
Like the whole city, I watched the pyre grow—watched idle
as myths, as the column of smoke stripped into O's: hundreds
of lips in a silver gasp, or in protest, or choking. Over the O's
were sparks, fizzy accent marks for vowels in the language
we speak among ourselves only, to this city, our hands
cupping matches, exclamation points swabbed of fire. & scorch marks
remind us, skin is parchment, & ink required
to shade our hands back to the amber of trees. But take care
with "our." So tomorrow, I'll wrap any torch in almanacs, loudly
call the names of the dead. & I won't forget to light the small
caves of the skull, our skulls—I'll set my watch to the hour
when the star's heat makes grave & acute on the night's
too-young black vellum, crow
when the sun, like a red gum eraser,
shreds the unwritten work. Tomorrow—I'll remember
Argus. Giant with a hundred eyes, Watchman
for Hera, neighborhood guard. I'll remember him blinking
as the sound of wings. I'll remember Hermes is ours
to "reform." His badge of cirrus, his gun nearly
star-bright in shellac from city coffers. & when Argus, too, is killed,
& our mourning wracks the Mount, we'll press Hera
at least to build a shrine. All we'll get is the peacock's tail,
which will always bear his eyes. They don't blink, not ever,
& when the peacock dies, the feathers will
make a nice grave: wordless, like hands
raised peaceful in the air. Buried with hundreds
of eyes, still
above ground, watching.