for Michael & Philando & Amadou & Tamar &

arc of bright red smears baby blue sky
his flesh, his bones  broken  twisted 
rendered  muted    flesh 
of his mother’s flesh

burned onto the retina of a 

flattened into snapshots resurrected a

in hyperbolic terms newsfeeds & algorithms a

batons wake the neighborhood
sirens wake the neighborhood
pow pow! wake the neighborhood!

the neighborhood is 
the blood bears
no one calls a 
to unwake this  mothering wail 
call silence a

something presented in support of truth
what declares something to be true
what human eyes make note of
to come to a knowledge of what is by living through it

at what point does a black boy become
what is true
what the human I can see?

the literal translation of the Greek for martyr
as in black boy as

call the devil a lie
& witness this

fixation on intimate bone-dance of black bodies in mourning
no one required to be forgiven yet — yet
no one stands as
a rotting body is 
not a body if it is

caught in the act of black:   
quotidian disruption bears false
unsees the bloodspray on asphalt & t-shirts
makes note of it with a different eye
this fabled launch pad
of maggot dreams now stands as 
souvenir of requisite martyrdom
for future historians   
excavating the body born black 
black born museum artifacts
declaring the ghastly to be true— 

the closed-eye mouth of  
catacomb’d streets as
sanguine’d as
silenced as

What are you looking for?