Like a black bag thrown over a prisoner’s
head, the coat fits taut against his shoulders.
He must have seen a tailor. He must have had
the foresight to bargain like a knife: with teeth.
A chirp sounds in the courtroom. What I think
a bird is just the laugh in his throat.
The coat, bulletproof and stiff. I fix my eyes on
it, the only thing — the DA tells me— I have to say
is the color of his coat. I don’t have to look at
him at all. Like a stone capping a stone, the blue of
his coat rests on my lungs. It is all I can say. Blue
like deep water that holds a cobalt sky above it.
The blue coat. A dark thing. What couldn’t get
lost in it? The red of his ear, his family silent behind
him. The laugh, still winged, sets its feathers in my
mouth. I spit songbirds for days. I eat them alive.
DANI JANAE is a poet and journalist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her work has been published by Longleaf Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Journal, Palette Poetry, Slush Pile Magazine, and others. Her manuscript, Express Desire, was a finalist for the 2023 CAAPP Book Prize.
instagram: @bell.biv.dahoe twitter: @figwidow bluesky: danijanae
