Black In America Is...


Black in America is a poem written in blood,
pain filled stanzas of people reduced to mud
on a plantation of snow.

It is living with anxiety that goes undiagnosed,
silent conversations with ancestral ghost
while Marvin’s Make Me Wanna Holler plays
in the background.

It is being fearful of traffic stops
by agenda having cops
who are eager to turn us into hashtags.

It is a worldstar video full of wide hips and tatted backs
playing against the echo of cotton field whip cracks
which dominate legislative voting floors.

It is watching hipsters discover your neighborhood;
appropriation of our culture into consumer goods
because wanting to be black is an American pastime.

It is standing in line for $300 J’s;
fire from religious pulpits condemning all gays
while pastors baptize their side chicks.

It is being more comfortable with the people living in your phone
rather than with the people living in your home
because sometimes illusions are kinder than reality.

It is Grandma’s hands and Pop-pop’s storytelling,
family get togethers full of food, laughing and yelling;
matriarchs and griots mimicking the sun.

It is remembering black love unafraid and intense;
velvet paintings and nag champa incenses
inspiring many raised fist romances.

It is kids who love STEM writing algorithms and code,
blerds, anime watches and gamers who dream bold;
silent architects of future rebellions.

It is the night feared by those only loving the moon,
scared that darkness will ultimately consume
their precious alabaster shine.

Black in America is a poem written in blood,
pain filled stanzas of people reduced to mud
on a plantation of snow.



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