by Christopher Costello

Every urn is always a grenade.

Let this one not explode in your hand.

All our bodies are already acts of war,

so drop yours from a goddamn airplane

before the enemy does. Take up space.

Glitter the streets with broken glass

diamonds, dance yourself sick in the fog

machine tear gas of Saturday night.

Become a forest of angry

fists and clasped hands. Stomp on

restaurant tables. Repeat yourself

like gunfire. Pull your own trigger

warning: you are a story

of something broken, but ‘

every body is made of blood

stained glass and cracks

under the pressure,

spiderwebbing out past

the horizon. The new future

is already here: palaces of bone

and brick, a halo of sirens

over every city street.

Chris Costello is a writer, editor, and educator from Central New York. His poems have appeared in Paintbucket, Rise Up Review, and Nine Mile Magazine, among others. He is interested in queerness, spacetime, and identity construction.