Melissa O. Fuller

May 17, 2017 | 10:23 AM

This guy 
he wasn’t annoyed at my jumping into the car
before him,
for he couldn’t take my place 
tears, streaming long, from face.

The driver
said he’d seen a me, many times over.
That I mustn’t be so lost,
over things that were never mine
to keep.
If they were, they’d be with me.
And although we make these choices,
the outcome was never by these hands.
Said the evils of the world, belong
the things that hurt, were not always wrong.
Balance he repeats.

The phone rings
heart skips a few beats.
Death by threes, says caller –
mom, uncle, son.
Cabbie turns to say,
“Love, no cry, what’s done, is done.”

People
before they knew hunger
before limbs, tiny fingers, touch Aunty’s nose
before they mistook danger for mere adventure.
Fore granted the gift of life’s toll.

All these blue bodies.

And I wondered how many souls
cabbie forced into the ground.
How many moons
many suns
many nights
he’d lost
to let his conscience drown.