Red Roses. Blue Violets.

 

roses are red. violets are blue.
little black boy. hands up ‘fore they shoot. 
before they blame you when the trigger moves. hands up even as the bullets pierce you. even after your skin has turned blue. has whispered back into Eden’s womb. with a hashtag or two. with a body like rose. little black boy why so blue. why so mute. so new. i mean the way the violets dance from your tomb like vengeful ancestors with french quarter roots. why so         dead. why so tight. so taut. why do they ask like they envisioned any other use for your temple. like they didn’t design your childhood to be a crash course in genocide evasion. or a coaster of complexes built on inferiority clues. like you didn’t learn to dance with the noose before you learned your native groove.

little black boy. what it do. how long. do you think. they gone wait. for you. to change colors. before. they shoot. how bulletproof. do you think. that degree. gone make you. how long. you gone let them. tell you. when to bleed. how your black silk. should peel. how long. till you quake. the holiest room. with your screams. how long. till you ink. your declaration. of independence. till you wipe. your insides. off the floor. 

little black boy. you didn’t volunteer to be a martyr. i hope you are home now. mama’s last sounds of you are on a voicemail. she can’t delete it. can’t touch the phone. your voice is a knife to her throat. every night the wooden floor creaks with the sound of your flesh being opened without consent. apology. the coroner has your body type memorized. 2017, number 142. your body broken. juice poured out. replayed on the news. like american romance. 

you are the poster child for casket. scapegoat of madness. little black boy. why so silent. rise up like monsoon. crash down. you are bitter bloom of red roses. white violence. blue violets. you are the flag of a new season. a remixed dream. a battle cry with a drum beat. you are Babylon’s crumbling. Leviathan’s last victim. promise me. you won’t let your heart cease. until they drown        in sweat. 
in their sleep.         
                                    from the rumbling hum of rebellion.
 

 

Cover Photo by Dominique Jordan on Unsplash