With delicate spider silk we’re threaded together,
though you are dead, and I am here feeling your burn
in my right hip. It’s a protest song—the one you screamed as they
rushed you to your death. Or the one your daughter
hollered as she tried, tried to get there but could not
because that was the day, the day the city decided to tear up her street.
These songs ignite my rusty gears, my potholed bones.
I crack and swell with you when I move.
Your anger is a burning light in between my ribs.
I’ve tried, tried to heal us. To give you permission
to quit me—but you return day after day, as an ache, untouched.