Crab-Fat-Magazine-5

his face smashed against the side of a
police car, his wrists twisted at an odd
angle behind his back, the cop saying Back
up, back up, do you know this guy?
Because you’re a screaming white woman
and because he’s a black man and that’s
how they treat black men in this city.
Now the way he sits back down is
sad, the way he winces when he touches
his face is sad. The way he pulls his hand
away when you try to interlock it with
yours. It’s all sad.
When you announce that you’re
going to bed, it’s late, you have work in a
few hours, you can’t take off, he stays in
the record room, running the hand that’s
not holding the ice pack along the cover
of The Blueprint. Jay-Z probably had
problems like this, you want to say. But
the joke isn’t really a joke. It’s too
obvious. You’re not very funny.
You don’t really sleep but instead fall
into a space where you can convince
yourself you are, and when your alarm
goes off only three hours later you’re
already prepared for it, up and at ‘em. In
the other room he’s asleep sitting up, his
head back, his mouth open, the frozen
berries soggy in their bag next to him, the
towel soaked through. You pick up the
bag, put it back in the freezer, grab
broccoli florets, wrap them in a new
towel, and lay it on his eye.
On the train to work, someone talks
about God and someone else asks for
money. One says Please, I’m not a bad person,
please. The other one says If you trust in God,
He will show you the way. But you don’t have
any change to give and you don’t believe
in God so you turn your headphones up,
lay your head against the window, and
watch as the train rushes through the
tunnel.
Alisha Ebling is a Philadelphia-based writer. Her fiction and poetry have been published
nationally and internationally, most recently through The Head & the Hand Press, Stockholm
Review, and Dhaka Tribune: Arts & Letters. Her work explores femininity, family, and the
relationships that shape us.
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