Perhaps it Was Satire

 

Perhaps it Was Satire

(“For the arrows of the Almighty are within me, their poison my spirit drinks; the terrors of God are arrayed against me.” Job 6:4)

 

Perhaps you thought it was satire as you saw the
helpless man burn.
Perhaps you thought it was a fairy tale when you saw
his black skin bleed.
Was your sarcasm worth it,
did it make you feel larger,
did you sense the darkness
when you said that he simply
should have complied?

 

How many of your brothers have been
shot in the back
7 times
by an officer of the peace?
How many, and who?

 

Perhaps you believe the playgrounds belong to you,
the shiny slides,
the perfect pavement,
the basketball nets replaced every afternoon.
Perhaps you sit in the shaded picnic spots
and listen to barbershop quartets
or a jazz combo while you douse your briquettes.
Perhaps you think race doesn’t mean a thing
even after stranglings, shootings, and warrants issued
like invasions.
Perhaps you believe.

 

So, I ask again, how many of your sisters
have been shot
in the dead of night
in their own bed
by officers who would have otherwise
knocked.

 

Have the arrows cut through your own flesh,
have you drunk the poison of blades invading
privacy, eaten the bitter fruit that steals all your sleep?
Do you need lessons, do you need more training,
has life been perfectly sweet? Did the giants hold you
underfoot while others raced ahead? Were you blamed
for coming in late?

 

Let us hear the stories of power that steals, giants who
rage, firearms that splay the last breath of the day. Let us
create the stories of power that heals, servants that sage
our playgrounds and begin the music to a new age
of open
dance
and
play.