You Don’t

I’m scrunched
in partially obscured view seating,
hands at my temples, elbows
pressed to the balcony rail.

Look up, Sherman Alexie!

I squint through borrowed glasses, willing
your signature pen to drop, your writer’s eyes to find me.
I’m cheap. I haven’t bought your book
and cannot stand in line.

While you speak you are
a blur filtered through fire.
Stories spin up from your hands.
Your waving arms
signal the grief in us, pin us to privilege.
Kind challenger, you acknowledge
the blood on my head, my hands.
You entertain, but do not comfort.
You laugh at us. We laugh too. We squirm.

I left my glasses at home.
My fresh-failing eyes search, fuzzing.
Had we forgotten the dark lottery of zipcodes?
Flesh-eating guilt communion?
How thoughts may swim brilliant, lithe, but must live
bound grey in fragile brains?
Yes, we forgot. Look at the way
you force us to remember.

Sherman Alexie, look up!!

I wanted this poem to be funny like you. Then
I wrote in earnest.

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