Lloyd Lutara
98—63—4
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98—36—4
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Tremors,
palpitations,
sweat—
try to breathe.
Breathing’s easy.
That’s why they say
it’s as easy as breathing.
But when was the last time
it was easy?
When?
Tell me
and all the gold in the world is yours.
You could use some gold,
couldn’t you?
To fix those frayed nerves,
to soak those blistered feet.
So tell me—
do you even remember?
Close your eyes.
Take your time.
Visualize.
Visualize.
Visualize.
Can you see it?
98…
98…?
No—
89…
89…63…4.
CLICK.
Door swings open—
a metallic box
they told you is home.
Right foot,
left foot;
right foot,
left foot.
Your armor’s heavy,
smeared with blood,
dented
from Goliath blow
after blow
after blow.
The blood’s not yours
but your body’s sore.
Clang to the floor:
helmet,
breastplate,
left gauntlet,
right gauntlet.
Left side of the brain too—
but coddle the right.
Precious,
precious
like a newborn.
So precious
you could cry.
Your feet fail.
Dawn is
two hours away
but there’s no time
to wash off the grime.
Find what peace,
what sleep
you can—
because with dawn
comes
another
fight.
PEACE INTERLUDE by Bryson Tiller
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