Day Sixteen: Sonnet for the black boy and the famine of touch.

a hood-wide famine which starves the young boys

of touch that does not cost us any blood

neither to splatter across our sneakers

nor to rush to our bulge of ruining

we watched Michael kiss Fredo tenderly

to then orchestrate his timely murder

it learned us a sort of intimacy

where no lad’s eyes were to search another’s

for an overstayed gaze in want of warmth

begot wrong friction, coaxed fist fires

that scorched and turned smiling jaws into ash

and for as long as I can remember

I have lived in the gash of my yearning

trying my best to exhume a phoenix.

Like what you read? Give Rasheed Copeland a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.