Laquan McDonald: Also a Lamb
God loves the stench of burning flesh, Laquan. And I’ve heard bullets burn the blackness out of bones. IF only your leaving the scene was exit-stage-right, and your rock step to pirouette to splay for Ailey rather than dash-cam— IF only this scene was lit not by hypostatic strobes but laureated iris blue, your ballistic moves could have been seen as ballet. Laquan, we met you at the altar— a cocksure ram, un-thicketed a bounty to appease the incessant I Am. We prayed that your aroma would steal up to God’s sooty nostrils balm his blistered lips pool in his pitted throat coat his clysmic need. We blasphemed: if only Cain had offered you first, without flaw and if the Cyrenian never took up the cross, this world would not see us as sin.