They killed Us again. In the grocery store, Fountain that relieved food desert status, spot of the mundane where death, oft imagined need not be feared here amid the carrots
they say he drove 3 hours to reach the “replacements” Our—for in death they ancestor-like, flood our hearts, haunt our breath, Until we must love them— Ten Beautiful Black grandmothers, and aunties, Uncles, Fathers, anybody’s children but God’s named, hunted and Slain in the marketplace.
To the white god Mammon they pray each Sunday “Keep our hearts pure pure as the driven snow— Christ wash us clean of the bodies whose destruction is our mortar” and drive from service to condone the “mental illness” all the rage these days
I am in the hands of
the Almighty—the God of my ancestors’
strife, of lonely nights and staggering
steps—of blood that’s thicker than
water—of waters deep and forbidden—
the Abyss into which to fling oneself.
I submit to the craters of history,
inevitable, lurching forward to bear
me hence, cradling my back
as I remember to stand tall
—my yoke is easy; though
your DNA bear the mark
of the lash, I am with you.
Photo of the night by Lukas Robertson on Unsplash
Photo of “I am with you” by the HoneyBear
I have a will of iron.
Molten and curing.
It is strong when I keep my
joy close. So many things tumbling
out, so many visions caught,
so many puzzles puzzled — that
Joy. I clutch it now.
Needlessly, for it sticks to me like char.
When I see it, my will is
clear, strong, and free.
So I do not ask, “What the hell am I doing?” I crack a smile and get to work.