BRIDGE CARD HOLDER Demetrius Buckley You have insufficient funds at 11:52, again at 11:58. 12:01, you swipe Newports and Arizona Iced Tea, Everfresh Papaya Juice because you don’t like how gin burns when traveling solo down a dry throat. You seem to think of your child and snatch a red Blow Pop which, by morning, will end up stuck on the side of a carseat collecting fast food crumbs and dollar store weave, a ponytail on a stick. At a distance, Chandler Park is a simple circle: one way in one way out. It reminds you of momma’s favorite line: niggas chase their own funky tails. You want him in deep circles, calendar events, when prenatal prescriptions boost your monthly funds with swollen breasts and thick thighs, under a shirt one size too big. Maybe this time it’ll be a girl and she’ll inspire the young boys up the street to catch her dreaming out the hood. You ignore momma when she say he gon’ be in prison or on a T-shirt posing the good lord’s death. She makes you think about that. 82
EXCHANGE