Painting Flowers at a Time Like This

After Hanif Abdurraqib

Dear editor, 

This is not a political poem but

in the wake of assassinations of 

presidents and soil sliding down 

like a scream swallowing its own 

sound, I pour water into a glass

jar and think of my cousin, 

(whose name means ‘what an angel’)

cleaning meat in the yard,

both legs, amputated because 

sugar eats bodies like hard

candy, slow and sure. I think of the fire

in my own legs, my feet, an ashtray, 

think the many ways I can die

in this body, in this skin, and

squeeze blush-colored paint to keep 

from dying, today, to keep from crying 

over four bullets in my cousin’s head,

a different cousin (whose name means 

noble) and just like that, without 

invitation, the voice in my mind says 

make this something else, make it—

make it protest, say it loud—make it 

make it say something else but

instead, I smooth the bristles’ edge

to remove excess paint, dip and touch 

pen-sized brush to canvas like jazz 

snare drum, conjure wild rose 

petals, a wall around my body,

armor for hallowed ground.

I say all that to say,

I deserve this. 

To paint flowers. 

I deserve to paint flowers. 

I deserve it, I said.