Wednesday 5/15/2013

Filling out applications, exercising
the body, washing dishes, cooking a meal,
responding to email, filling out forms,
taking out trash. Call them “mundane”
as if one could do without all this
attention to detail; as if survival
didn’t depend on it. Writing a poem, too
is somehow necessary. Stopping to look
at photos of life during segregation as if
borders don’t summon gunshots on
the other side of town. And survival
somewhere isn’t a matter of staying
behind the line or negotiating a slim
margin between here and there.

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