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.