I heard
a caged bird sing
songs of Solomon
til' her beak was bended
& bruised. Her voice
alive once,
WOKE,
thriving,
but too dejected for
the bluest of eyes.
She sang of dreams,
deferred liberation &
Black Kings
whose wine was
swapped for pickin’
grapes soon to dry into
some white man’s
Sun-Maids.

​​​​

I saw her,
dying in the blues
of paper-cut wings.
Feathers plucked, leaving
her body barren of
Virtue.
She was gutted.
Her lineage

of African Cowboys,
Boycotts & Brown Boys
who hate the color blue
was skinned &
turned lean.
Her bones beloved
only when
snapped
so, we could bear
witness to its marrow.
The ink she bleeds,
smelling
of Stonewall’s cement,
Mandela’s
cell—
& All American Boys too.​​

​​

​

I heard her cry,
terrorized for all
the songs needed
to be sung & all the little
girls, boys, reflected in
her shadow—like you
& I.
She cried rivers
for the hate given—
Hate bound
to fuck little infants
like you & I.

​​

​

I heard her cry,
terrorized for all
the songs needed
to be sung & all the little
girls, boys, reflected in
her shadow—like you
& I.
She cried rivers
for the hate given—
Hate bound
to fuck little infants
like you & I.​

​

We all saw her once,
or maybe,
a little birdie
just like her—bound.
Possibility once etched
in her stitching,
in the shelf
she used to
roam. Now gone.
She once
             could
                      live
                            on...