RIDING DIRTY

Everything has a message
jumping turnstiles
can say poor, opportunist or
anarchist-
breathing is political -
mine can damn me.

If on the subway,
I breathe my name into his mouth,
flick my tongue
to remember the smell of his smile,
will my politics kill?

Light from dark
growls, glowers in the distance
chinks into armor
crawls upon secret moments
killing
not too kindly,
in between opportunities

clandestinely grabbed.

My face is not
painted rainbow,
does not wave and flourish
beneath harsh flickering lights,
eyes trained to see,
but not look.

Brown is not a stoic color.

But brown in brown
intertwined fingers
Space-less lips
speaks freedom, is
beatific.

War zones zoom past-
republic enclaves,
drug turfs, religious bastilles
hostile eyes. The grip
gets tighter, knuckles
grey like used charcoal
crumble.

Maybe spines can be
flagpoles. Every action
wind blown flags
telegraphing intent,
unorthodox desires.

Fools names and fools faces
are always seen in public places-
mama said. But
my name is hidden under his tongue, protected
between the clench of his jaw. My image
captured within the lens

of his eye.
Does this make us safe, or
political prisoners riding home
underground to sanctuary?