Ray Succre

Red Blanket

The red blanket rests beneath us,
each scorch enlivening every bone.
We have depleted like cyclone outturns,
what grand people—
we've no frenzy therefore.

As smoke on flesh,
he enters the shady estate, 
caged bird or Shakur;
blood and time wrought him a path in,
and we shut up our mouths seeing him,
the man who wears his curls close,
the black him.

We have towering gasps behind 
trouble sleeping.
He signals in the blue evening, 
sweating as smelted bronze.

"Problem?" he asks.
"Few of us know you much," we say,
"and it's comfortless." 
"You mean frightening," he corrects.
"Or alien," we add.

The next red blanket falls atop us.
He and we breathe and look, 
lastly scorched into sensible particles.

Again, we are a history in the 
ancient, frightened spectacle.

—Ray Succre

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