Sun this morning, clear blue sky, cottonwood seeds like
frantic cyclones of false snow glinting. Everything’s still wet
from last night’s rain, and tree leaves rustling green reflect in
the wet roads. I jog down 92nd toward 1st ave and the
playground at Sandel Park. My feet kick up rocks, fling water
droplets from puddles. It’s Monday. The park isn’t busy, but a
white family’s at the playground, their daughter on the
swings, and an older white man is foraging, for mushrooms
probably, beneath a cluster of Scots Pine at the far end of the
park.          
          Nature sounds play in my ears over and through gentle
piano, preferable to a chorus of cars. The parents see me
coming long before their daughter, eye me like stray dogs in
an alleyway, but even a dog knows a side-step. I’m planting
my foot and looking over my shoulder to make sure the
street’s clear for crossing. There’s no sidewalk on the other
side. I’m trying my best not to make it look like I’m being
chased, skirt non-threatening. The dad repositions, moves
slowly across the grass so that he’s between his family and
me. My chest gets loud in my head, and then I’m swimming
again and young, stepping shallow across the bottom of a
pool, out along the asphalt burning.                                     
          I pull out my phone and dial my mom, head down like
I’d learned, then slip it back into my pocket. It rings on my
headphones.
          Hello. Mom to the rescue.
          I get brief glimpses of the houses on my left as I jog
by, trash and recycling left on the curb, a lone bike on its side
in the lawn. Most of the wood is worn down, that weathered
look from the ocean, the air thick with salt.
          Hello. Mom again.
          There are a few more modern looking complexes, new
builds as the street inclines, but everywhere is green.
Everything in bloom. The change in incline is so gradual I
barely feel it in my calves, but when I get to a certain point
the flat intersections blend and the road appears as if jutting
out into the sky, one gray thing beyond the park, swallowing
homes and cars alike. The sidewalk ends up ahead. I’ll have
to run straight down the center.
          Boy if you don’t say something.
          Hey. Hey. Couldn’t hear you, sorry. Need anything on my way home?
          Well ain’t you sweet. Grab me a pack of Reds from the gas station.
          Be there soon, I say, then add quickly, Love you.
          There’s no altercation, no gunshot. The parents have
spotted me and are watching from a distance. The forager has
yet to see me, but I’m already on the other side of the road.
My leg muscles are tense. There’s a second after each footfall
where the energy pools in the balls of my feet, and I lean
forward as if on the verge of falling, and I have to keep
myself from breaking into a sprint. People look out their
windows as I pass by or, there already, deadbolt their doors.
          It’s just a morning. One among so many that they
stretch into a moment. I keep running. It’s all the time, this
anxiety. While I cook, the heat of the kitchen. While I drive to
work, the scientists on the radio. While I masturbate, the Jesus
looking down. While I sleep, my body. While I wake, a
hanging from, at least part of me, a bullet now. All I want is
to jog home, see: home, safe and

The little girl spots me. She
waves and smiles. I wave back
and her mom rushes over to
her, grabs her arm. I’m in a
neighborhood with, listen,
limits for someone like me, a
Black man. The mom must
have startled herself because
she lets go and says, looking
in my direction and loud
enough for me to hear, we
don’t talk to strangers, honey.
And who can argue that? I
pivot and slow to a walk,
change course and head
towards the father who’s now
closer to his family. The girl is
still swinging, watching us all.
I pull an earbud out so I can
hear, shift my attention to the
little girl’s mother. When you
say stranger, you mean Black?
She gasps as if I’ve insulted
her. Hey now, the father says.
He puts one arm on his hip, the
other goes under his shirt,
behind his back to let me know
he has a gun, but I don’t stop.
The mother grabs her daughter
and pulls her off the swing. I
just want to know what exactly
you mean, I say. The dad draws
his gun. The mom screams. My
hands go up out of instinct, but
I’m angry enough to will them
down. The mother starts
apologizing, but the father’s
arm is straight, unmoving. His
finger’s on the trigger. I nod
my head and turn back. The
father walks toward me. His
wife’s on the phone with the
police. He’s close enough to
hit, and I can’t resist. After, I
run. Legs pumping hard.
The police catch me after a few
blocks, sirens blaring. Five
squad cars for the white
neighborhood. They drive onto
the sidewalk I’ve refused to
leave. Cops leap from the cars,
point their guns at me. I look to
the Black one. His gun points
at me, too. My hands shoot—
up into the air. When the pain
comes it’s mostly heat so that
the sun’s cool on my face. The
rocks a gentle massage. All
around me is swirling. I am
swathed in greens and blues.