spindrum

we were spinning in the park

percussive pathways pervading

the perfection of eyes

black from looking at the pavement

their bereavement visible only

on the spectrum of disbelief

a crimson lady spinning

all her laughters sinning

we blessed the maple

over the stable where jesus

was born a drummer

whose hands only healed

hard taut surfaces

and the faces he slapped

and in santa's crimson lap

sat a purple circumcision

of a belief akin to relief

growing in their chests

and putting to rest the worry

that they could wrench no change

before they died in pain

so they spun in dismal dizziness

and said to miss each

of their taut purple faces

that looked up and poured like a cup

moons those drum faces

humming in a symphony of hurt

blurting out as they were slapped

— July 2021, Huntington, NY