Sonnet for Dzhokhar Tsarnaev
BY WILL STOCKTON
Under the white tarp of this Watertown boat,
I tell you your joke: Goes Car. In it sit
Dagestani. Chechen. Ingush. Question,
who is driving? Do you know where you’ll go
when you die? The police. But your ear, sweet,
is leaking. Blood angles your face, brother.
I heal death with my tongue, lick your English
and kiss it clean. Brother now, I whisper,
to Shut the fuck up. Moment of silence,
and I listen for ticking. For the sounds
of Boston angel trumpets. Wrestling coach.
Police. The sound of you in a singlet
slamming boys smack on mats. Crushing brothers.
Your arm hooks over the edge: my boy, released.
Will Stockton teaches English at Clemson University. With D. Gilson, he is the author of Crush (Punctum Books) and Gay Boys Write Straight Porn (Sibling Rivalry Press). His poems have appeared in journals such as Assaracus, Bloom, Fourth River, PANK, and Weave Magazine. His book Brimstone is forthcoming from Queer Young Cowboys.