“Necrolingual, or Modernized Joan of Arc” – Deon Robinson

Someone called me a fag once and I’m sure they spoke a dead language, preserving something familiar from inside that death trap they call a vehicle. That’s not the point, not his tongue, not the matchbox from which the incendiary occurred, but rather that it is Pride month, this is the only month for lion-hearted martyrs.

What season is better than summer to imitate burning at the stake? There are only so many ways to repeat the dead, yet here I am, interrupted midway through rehearsal.

Who am I to forget that belonging is a country club on the nicer part of town?

Who am I, but the one who remembers that cars run on gasoline, that gasoline is derived from fossils, that that man is running on other people’s ghosts, that ghosts, (or rather the dead) do speak, through the disappointing roar of an engine?

Deon Robinson is an Afro-Latino poet born and raised in Bronx, New York. He is an undergraduate at Susquehanna University, where you can find him skateboarding across campus, writing poems and hyperventilating about other people’s dogs. Follow his misadventures and let him know what your favorite poems are on Twitter @djrthepoet.

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