Hope is a thing with blasters
A Star Wars poem about more than Star Wars
Outside, men are being shot in the back.
Deputies are pulling pistols instead of tasers.
Their weapons are not set to stun.
When I was six years old all I cared about
was swinging a tobacco stick
and humming through my lips
the noises a lightsaber would make.
The birds circled overhead
like TIE fighters in formation.
Outside, someone says “fuck your breath,”
while a man bleeds to death,
his incredulous cries winnowing to rasps.
I watch the new Star Wars trailer
on a work break, and suddenly I’m six again,
rolling in the grass, dodging blaster fire from birds.
I remember how Jedi could deflect lasers
with their palms and their faith,
and for ninety seconds, I knew
no bullets would hit their targets.