Hope is a thing with blasters
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.