The morning after Orlando, we hang our heads
half-staff. My love shrugs my arm off of their shoulder and reminds me
where we are: we’re at a rest stop, we’re somewhere
in the Midwest. The shooter’s father said his son opened up
the chest of that nightclub and undid its pulse
because he saw two men kissing in the street. I try
to kiss my love in the street. Even after, I have a hard time
believing anyone would want me to die for this.
Pulse
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