no praise song/ no protest song/ no hashtag

I don’t have a poem

For bullets

For black girls

Missing

Dying.

 

I don’t have a poem

For flesh eating, blood hungry

Whiteness,

With its bullets

Feasting on black bodies

Down into the ground

Tented by their ancestors

And their blood seeping in

Making the ground fertile

For another boy

For more silence

And praise–

 

“He’s a great father”

“He’s a devoted Christian”

“Phenomenal leader”

As though they never killed

Using the Bible

Their missionary leadership

Fathering in rape

Breeding new bodies

Those that will always want a place

In a world willing to kill them.

 

I have no words left inside me-

no eulogy for masses

No praise song

No protest song

No hashtag

No feet to march

Tears dried up

Bones trembling

In weakness and shock

My mind thin as the sky

Violent rays moving through

Like bullets that will someday

Meet my flesh.

 

I don’t have a poem for Ferguson

don’t have a poem for Dakota

None for Sandra Bland

None Amadou Diallo

None for Pulse

For Syria

None for Gaza

And Soweto

And Khayelitsha

And Kano

And Nairobi

I have no words

for death

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