by Raki Jordan
I hang from my hairs on a landline,
twirling and rocking back and forth in the sky,
hairs intertwined with each other –
body possessed by wind, signaling
which direction it’s traveling to.
I grew accustomed to the Bronx’s elements –
the wretched sun’s blazing heat
morphs my leather skin into a vile
shrunken shell, and winter casts me into
a silhouette of ice, and it suspends me in time.
Air Jordan is engraved in my tongue,
and the sides of my neck are forever stained
with a bleeding check, fading, slowly oozing
down to my soles that had been twisted
and froze in place.
My insides been occupied by birds:
Sparrows, Pigeons—their eggs,
the abundance of twigs, discarded plastic bags
and old leaves; their remains aligned my guts.
I whimpered when winter visits, and they fly
to a new home—leaving me dangling;
Take me with you, Bird! I’ll think to myself,
wishing they’ll wait for me as I spun on this
landline, from them using me to launch themselves
further in the sky—they never turned back.
I become lifeless again.
The man I’m dangling above is lifeless too –
Red dye oozing slowly from his head –
Mouth agape, eyes stuck between squinting and
wide open, like a porcelain doll, arms and legs
twisted behind each other—body punctured with holes
that looks like mines aligning the sides of my body.
I wonder if they’ll hang him from a landline –
draping his body over the thick, black, wire –
tying his hair together so he can dangle,
and rock slowly, when wind blows across his body?
Will he smell of sweat or corroded leather?
Will anyone notice him dangling or will he
just be another sneaker on a landline?
Raki Jordan is an avid reader, who enjoys writing pieces that’ll encourage thought-provoking interpretations of his works. Jordan is inspired by his everyday life, capturing the often bitter, sweetness of his environment and society.