Hands Up

When you first see the white hood lurking

behind the lamppost, dancing alone inside

the barren parking lot, time collapses.

Fifty steps later, your lungs resurface.

Your eyes hug the brick building, a makeshift finish line. 

But then two clammy lights undress

your body & you find gum beneath your shoes.

Peanut butter hardens inside your mouth.

Butterfly hands swim in sticky tar Mother

taught you to call night sky. 

Your teeth bind your tongue. 

Would it be too much of a cliché

to call them shackles? 

Your sweat wonders

whether the car mistook your black sleeve

or your black skin for a bullet.

Your loose zipper ponders if she will be recycled:

an impromptu body bag. 

Claustrophobia sings a lullaby. 

He’s rehearsed these moves

in mirrors time after time. Danced prop-less

without knowing when bloody curtains would

beckon him center stage. His younger sister

has no lines. Her only job is to smile & pray

this scene doesn’t call for nudity.