Tarik Dobbs
Have you condemned—
After Solmaz Sharif
Lukewarm bath water?
The drafty window just above the faucet head?
The reek of vinegar from the all-natural cleaner?
The roommate smoking on your front porch, in a puffy, pride-themed Lockheed Martin jacket?
The celebrity whose chartered jet trails exhaust over the dawn moon?
The sriracha that shot out of your sandwich and onto your khakis?
The barista who didn’t hear you ask for oat milk?
The floaties in your eyes when they bounce, briefly made visible, as you step into the sunlight?
The father who doesn’t call?
The uncle who does?
The mapping software which chose not to map his movements?
The gift shop that checkpointed the space between him and the Dead Sea?
The checkpoint, far north, at which your grandmother swallowed her gold?
The seaweed covering a man’s private beach?
He who came without a condom?
The one who didn’t clean his recyclables?
The buzzing cat who pauses, while crossing the yard, to brush a rash onto your legs?
The former roommate who lived with an untreated E. coli infection?
The dark which falls over your afternoons after daylight savings?
The house crooked on its cracked foundation?
The foundation who made a statement?
The one that didn’t?
The state government which meant to blockade the flood plain?
The developer who developed the land below to sit too low?
The families of every home around a cul-de-sac who went on vacation?
The disease born where their water stood still in its pipes?
The anatomy of the nuclear family?
The rot of delicates forgotten in your communal washing machine?
The minister who banned celebrating the release of prisoners?
The easy-tear tag which tore a hole through your shirt’s collar?
The pair of briefs chafing at its reinforced stitching?
The jeans which gripped too tightly?
The belt that didn’t?
Did you do it today?
Everyday?
At every mall of America?
When pigs fly?
When the diplomat curses?
Under the warm glow of a freeway tunnel?
Under the stars?
Where another martyr lies.
Where they don’t.