This poem was inspired by images of police brutality seen in the media and has been adapted from its spoken word format for this publication.
There is a dead child’s body on Congress’s floor.
Stop.
There is a friction between clothes and skin.
Stop.
First wound in the womb.
Stop.
The shadows lag.
Lag like blood.
Lag like that black boy blood.
Lag like that black boy was a blood.
Lag like it matters what set he claimed.
Lag like justice.
Stop.
Stop.
Lag like “I’ll be right back”
Lag like southern summer.
Them nights sho’ is endless.
Stop.
His first wound was in the womb.
He was given a gift, turned curse by 5,
We do not let our sons stay out past 5,
Because there is no grace, no mercy for back pocket bubble gum.
Back pocket hopes and dreams.
Back pocket “it’s just my phone”.
Stop.
Stop.
There is a friction between clothes and skin.
It’s inevitable when you are born of gunpowder, and chains, and revolution.
There is too much assimilation on this body.
Too much of what Ben Carson calls immigration on this body.
Stop.
Too much 4th of July not enough Juneteenth on this body.
This body has been policed for so long, it’s no wonder why I feel like a prisoner.
Shackled to the weight of metaphysical dilemmas unconquerable in nature.
Stop.
There is a dead child’s body on congress’s floor.
All brown.
All afro-kinky hair.
All Trayvon.
All Mike.
All “I’ll be right back”.
All “Baby where you at?”
All “I’m getting worried.”
All “Breaking News”
All train station morgue.
All reoccurring nightmare.
All.
Stop.
