"Platform" by Birch Wiley

money runs like blood through the big american corpse my big american corpse takes the subway chews the same piece of gum too long like cud like cows we mill in the smoke between tracks eyes wide and sightless our big american mouths follow hunger to hunger won’t see the plainclothes cop until it's too late won’t see him put his hands on a dirty arm won’t remember where that arm goes when it disappears into the non-place of a blue and white van sent to that other island where they take bodies we fear as if a person could vanish in a burst of white light as if a person were a problem we could solve do you believe we are innocent like animals like characters inserted for comic relief do you believe when the last brown face disappears from your block you will finally feel safe do you believe to feel safe is the same as happiness do you believe everything you’re told did you believe you’d lose nothing when you asked the machine to think for you to write your wedding vows and grocery lists to tell you when to smile when to jump how high did you start to believe it could not turn its face back to us that it would not show its teeth to quiet beasts fawning at its feet it’s hard for me to say ‘us’ even when I know it’s the right word even when I know I’m the ghost in the shell we’re the ghosts it’s one shell and just when I believe I can’t stand another moment alive moving like oil like money through this lifeless body my body tries to survive a man clips my shoulder he steadies me a thin hand dusty knuckles he smiles before he turns to face the little black box from his pocket heat of his hand still on my shoulder place our eyes met in the air human easy place where his dark american face meets my pale american face meets wind pouring out hot from the tunnel and the man waits next to me now his beautiful dark cheeks and his beautiful dark eyes move beneath their purple lids and the nod and nod of his head to what I can't hear the two of us wait for the train and the two of us wait like fledglings on a high branch for the moment his face turns back to my face and there is no face left between us ————————————– Birch Wiley called us from Brooklyn, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems