Deaf and blind, we cannot see or hear the breeze
from the dead who run past and collapse as
a spattered breath on the ground.
When I close my eyes I see blood and bullets.
But it’s not my blood. And they are my bullets.
Black skin and kinky hair lay on pavement
and over leather car seats with nothing left to give
but raised hands, clenched teeth, and the sways
and hums of chained ancestors from hidden burial mounds.
Our ears are ringing from the pounding bullets leaving
chambers and ripping through skin and bones that we
can’t hear the moaning and the crying from the grave,
families left to release their relatives’ spirits to be with the
generations of ancestors entombed in the ground of our
forefathers who separated and divided the liberties of men.
So, we listen with our blood. Lift our spirits to the sky.
Gather at the city’s farthest edge. Remember history
that began before the beginning of every moment
and reclaim what is ours, the blood of our people.
This morning I wanted to write about The Camp. But how can I? All I can think about are the children that I played with and hugged and cared for and that 1 out of 3 of them will end up in prison. How many more of them will be shot or will shoot? All I can see are the videos of men shot and killed by police.
We must rethink how we see ourselves, our people, our history. We must see our people as precious, beloved, full of dignity. We must see our history as working to deprive our people from what is theirs, their divine images. Their beautiful bodies. Their eternal spirits.