Elle J. Snyder

Jordan

I’ve seen you singing in the floor of the train car.
The screeching of the tracks, background singers.
Nobody else knows it’s the rest of the sky down there.
I try and count the stars but people keep treading over them.
A light dusting, it seems to accompany every galaxy.
But it wasn’t the dirt required that day. It wasn’t meant for rest.
Accidental slaughter, somehow nothing is wrong, “law and order”–
humans keep pretending to make rules.
There’s a living body somewhere. It is a family, maybe.
The house is well-heated, and Newsmax is on in the background
as they prepare their supper.
And you are still dead.
 
At least kin could make it to the afterword,
while your descendants, the crazed and the ignored,
dirty their hands for daily prayer.
Please, cold metal, hold me only in solitude.
Don’t speak my name in bursts of hot air from the dark.
Deliver us from each other.
You were hungry, maybe for more
than the world could chew.
We often find it so hard to listen
no matter how loud the hunger gets.
Taught early, the humans are,
to know who’s truth is more marketable.
There is an orange body somewhere. He’s just sent
another tweet-confessional. The air smells like
greasy-wrappers, and a full-page ad for murder.
You are still dead.
 
They are still talking about the insurance CEO,
not the harvesting of wellness
from the joyous populace.
One down, shot down,
and United we are in shooting.
When your murderer was acquitted
they cited his military pedigree.
He was in fact, quite precise–
and so photogenic.
I wonder if his health insurance
covers the way I hope he feels.
 
You are still dead. But you didn’t have to be.