even breaths. boy asks
"will your shoes fit my feet
when i grow up,
officer?" hands raised, he falls. exhales
a dream. (it sliced
the light like a metal barrel.)
yesterday they were
dandelion puffs / ready or not, here i come
all of them
dodging tar-covered roots / the floor is lava
the sandbox is blood
but it's not my son and i don't have time
would you rather
be lynched or do the lynching?
it's uncomfortable, isn't it
to realize both are still happening
realize Uncle Sam's cabin
is being renovated in your living room
a boy is dead
and we cover his family in dirt
struck down from trees
gently, because we care about the environment, and racism
doesn’t really exist
anymore. it's not with nooses, it's with arrogance
we do this
then go home and ask "what's for dinner?"
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