The Op-Ed Slam

My still head- by Tim Shea

I want a boy who has taken a razor
and written on his body
Written “Evil Empire” across his chest
as if he were made of stone,
until the medal has made a statement
with his own drying blood.
And if I found him, I would sing to him joyously.
I would ease him by playing classical music
through my fingertips,
until my own vibrations filled his wounds.
I would kiss his forehead
And call him a prophet.
And I would tell him
Tell him softly
Like this
I found you now.
Now we are boys touching.
So you fish too,
and you caught the big one.
And now you see.
See that when you fish
in a swamp of brutal unknowns,
You reel out deeper
until you run out of line.
Until you get out of line,
and fall in to the muddy waters.
In your still eyes I see you already know
You can’t catch something
that weighs more than you.
I want a dying boy,
one who can only move his fingers.
I would see the veins on his hands move
And imagine them losing color
As he lost blood
I would kiss his forehead
And call him a prophet.
And cut his shirt
from his clinging body
using only the blade I found in his palm.
I would offer my tears as a second baptism
And massage his back
where he had no cuts
I would whisper methodically
that he did the right thing
And I would kill him
Kill him softly
Like this

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