to not re-ink the story

for solstice we talk
about sending paper boats
down the cool and ever-moving (even in wisconsin winter) creek
how this statement:
UPDATE (8:30 p.m.): Funeral arrangements have been finalized for Antwon Rose.
is too final
too quickly
for a human who was just breathing and doing other being-alive kinds of things
only eight hours ago
though i don’t know antwon
i want to grind the hours down to a halt – so slow
that time starts to tip – tumbling backwards into itself
which might allow someone to step in to whisper
into antwon’s ear
into his feet set on moving
imploring him not to run
even when every cell insists otherwise
and all that tumbling backwards into time
might also allow one of us to whisper into the ear
of the anonymous cop
and into his hand shaped around a gun
telling him
to not shoot
to not kill
to not re-ink the story
that has already been written
by cop bullets and cop hands
all over black bodies
how i want this poem
to be a balm
for all those
set to run
because of the stories
they keep hearing about themselves
arriving, always arriving in the form
of a brutalized body
not a balm to soothe the terrible things
into some sort of apathy
but a balm that undoes the message
unfurling itself hurtling alongside the bullets
that zing through the too still air
pausing time or bending it or slowing it down and speeding it up simultaneously or stretching it to one side or another
as they hurtle from machine into body
punctuating the too old and too still-alive story
that says blackness means killable