Many of Us Have Died 

Asphalt gray turns black as soon as sun 

goes down & we can’t get caught out here 

in that late dark. I was minding my own business 

and the sky split open right above my ear - I saw god 

  • then he was gone. I kept calling him home, but the

concrete had already wrapped him up. 

We walked the long walk before heading back. 

We left all they gave us. We left it in the field, 

beyond the gate. We walked up to it and laid 

down our mama’s sheets and washcloths and 

broken lamps. Shook our heads, tired, saying no. 

We drove into the grass till it hid all but our 

heads. We were not afraid, just cautious 

about the other side. We had promise, once, 

but agree it is better to burn early than disappoint 

later. Solemnly we held hands and walked through. 

When winter comes we will see if we can bear the cold, 

or worse, bear the way the mist rises off warm wet ground. 

I’m still here, though, sorry for it. The trail goes back for miles. 

Bodies that have travelled the evergreen. 

I saw one this morning, gangly and appearing. 

Back when he was here he wasn’t here for much. 

Finally shot himself in the head while driving 

down the freeway and I don’t know what kind of 

place you got to be in to do something like that. 

Or I do. Many of us have died. Looked through a 

window into edge of the universe, saw what 

seemed better. Felt what feels like relief.

Micky Bayonne is a queer poet/musician/visual artist. They spend a lot of time talking to people about their Judy Garland obsession and watching 90's sitcoms. When they grow up they want to build a yurt and move to the west coast. They have been published on