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The Wilson Avenue Kings


ISSUE:  Autumn 2001

A child with glittering eyes
spat on me, slashed my jacket
with his boxcutter

and now the cop holding him
in a hammerlock ordered me:
hit as hard as you want.

Snow drifted in whorls
in the arc of a high lamp.
A dog’s silhouette paced
behind a frosted window.

As I backed away
trying to make each step slower
eyes in hallways
picked up my trembling.

Each door was covered
with one stroke of a letter
of an immense name

and the cop shouted after me:
Faggot. I risked my life.

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