train ride home from the land of Green
quickening paces as
catcalls knife themselves into threats.
Into a death come sixty years too
A body, hard on the
cold concrete, red
blood to reflect
cherry blossom trees.
Just across the river from the
freedom that hides in anonymity.
May 11, 2003:
small child, turning six years old.
She is protected as much by the
of her skin
as she is by her town of
white picket fences.
Listen to the glee
as it flees from her throat at the sight of a new present--
the screams that reverberate through
a Canyon of Steel
at that same moment
on that same day.
October 12, 2015:
I am no longer the six-year old birthday girl
but some kind of
figure to Hate.
The devil has Crimed
his way into the way I love,
into the life I live.
But my dreams are not yet
of the privilege I inherited,
Now I’ve learned that justice is just
to pose next to “Best Dressed Celebrities in Hollywood!”
“She didn’t have to die.”
You’re the thing that killed her.
Pascale Jarvis is a first-year student at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, where they* study creative writing. When they aren’t huddled in a chair, scribbling in a notebook, they enjoy painting murals, climbing trees, and kick boxing. One day, Pascale hopes to pulverize the gender binaries of society armed with pencil and paintbrush, and maybe a cup of coffee as motivation.