I

How to feel his death? On the street.

The shots. My friend’s scream. 

One cracked the air, the other 

pierced the thin veil, a usual evening 

returning from somewhere,

returned from many times before.

 

When I look for where to fix the broken city that I love, 

the whole tower wobbles. What the government hasn’t done. 

What the gunmen’s’ parents didn’t do. What hands the drug lords forced.

What? What I haven’t done with my puny song?

 

And now: the sirens.

And now: the neighbors say, “Did he resist?”  

And now: how can I live in this place or any place?

Can I live with myself—a part of his self, lying there, 

a part of the selves who dropped him there.

All of us, under the wing that is no wing.

 

II

In my mind-voice, without knowing why 

or from where it came, a whisper:

 

        “When the wing gives way…” 

        “When the wing gives way…”

 

I want to be more ready than I am today.

Ready to let what is left lift me, draw me into meanings 

that will shatter me more than this.