We shall overcome—someday. I need someday to be today.
     I know this is a fight worth dying for, but not a fight
     worth being killed over.

The truth is I don’t want to write about this.

I want to write about how when he brings me to climax, I
     transcend Techni-color celestial spheres garnished with sighs.

All I can think about is Black and brown faces melting
     in flames. Crying Black mamas.
     Video images with explicit evidence, but not enough “proof.”

I want to write about my 9th grade crush, Cooper Holmes
     his towering black mohawk. He rocked a Depeche Mode
     torn t-shirt and inked eyeliner. In an awkward display
     of love, I made him a punk rock mixed tape plus,
     Lauryn Hill’s cover of “Can’t Take My Eyes off of You.”
     He saved the last dance for me at prom. I knew
     about heaven that day.

But I keep seeing signs that say, “Black Lives Matter,” juxtaposed
     with “Black Deaths Louder.” I’m hopeless, helpless, marching,
     angry, righteous rampage. I can break a face,
     but not an oppressive system of hate.
     I can’t change hearts of malice
     and conviction. The loudest voices never listen.

I’d rather write about my grandmother. The only one to love me
     completely with no expectations. Just existence.
     Every weekend she’d gather four wooden chairs and blankets
     created my magical fort where I watched Saturday morning cartoons
     and was served a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. In the garden
     I felt the warmth of the sun and conferred with fairies
     while she tended her roses. I travel back
     there when I lose hope.

I want to write about that Queen.
     Meanwhile, grief. A Great Awakening (DEI) rapidly surrenders (DIE)
     return of the Great White slumber. Amnesiac America, swings
     left, swings right, swings white,
     sweet chariot.

​

I want to write about Sunday school. The genesis of my relationship
     with a higher power and the continued complex path
     of asking unanswerable questions. Still, finding a home with searing
     Georgia summers in our seasoned church,
     peeling paint and all. Mom says when you love
     something so much, it gets a little worn.
     Young and old greeting us. Smiles and strong hugs.

Our congregation small. Choir out of tune, big heart bold love
     and handsome stained-glass windows. This church
     has powerful prayer and no walls.

I’m still asking the unanswerable questions in this exodus. The revelation
     is we are not safe when a traffic stop is your last stop.
     When church bombings become church shootings. When
     the choirs are forever silenced in the ash. When you are
     killed in the street. When you are killed
     in your dreams. America’s next top hashtag.
     When the clown becomes the king. When jokers become the jury.
     Old wounds are reopening, have you noticed?
     It is 1865, 1916, 1955, 1964, 2013, 2020, 2025.

I am releasing the helplessness that once plagued my heart.
     So, while I want to write about all these other things,
     I can’t. We have a choice. We can rebury the wounds
     or heal them. Harness this toward equilibrium and peace.

     We return to ourselves over and over again. Unearth pain
     and release it. Embrace joy. Connection and rest
     are medicine. We forge a new world.

We shall overcome.