Poetry

A Poem for the Cop Who Asked My Deadname for Money

Your eyes watching, bloodshot in my memory

Photo of Author

I was kissing him through
the white headlights
of your eyes
watching,
bloodshot
in my memory
of another
Tuesday night,
the last one we’d get.

I ate soul food tonight
and remembered him
needing some kind
of blindness
I’d already forfeited,
the kind of blindness
that leaves blood all over
your safety-belts,
but no official
record of events
that only happened
in hushed nightmares
over and over;
he needed me
to stay
in my lane;
it was my birthday;
he didn’t want to stop
kissing my deadname
for your eyes only.