Under a white popping sky, constellations 

buckle together. Here off a blacktop road, I must

ask my mind: how many cant see redshift starlight 

as they breathe behind twenty-five-to-life metal


or beneath a roof of buckling pollution? 

After I read and wrote and screamed, its time 

I breathe — claim my Milky Way view

like the green in my pocket.


I return to read an author who doesnt mirror my melanin. 

Yesterday at dusk on a hotel bed, I visualized 

pickpocketing America’s fat body — dead 

presidents got thrown into a furious fire.


On this bed I paid to occupy, I’ll dream a new reality

where my sons heartbeats vibrate in a zip code

that wont throw his chambers into a cell or casket.

Photons within one galactic neighborhood 


pour into our terrestrial home of heartbeats 

and gunshots. How many cant see shifting beauty, 

only know horror in a neighborhood with prison bars? 

Tonight I gazed at a California skys familiar shine.

Keith Mark Gaboury, 35 years old, lives in Oakland, California. His preferred pronoun is he/him. Keith works as a preschool teacher. Through teaching workshops, a local poet who Keith admires is Kim Addonizio. She financially supports herself through her poetry.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *