Tulsa

Our grandmothers with scars on their backs.

Our men enslaved in jumpsuits, their hats blowing down the street. 

Our bodies in boats hobbling across the sea. 

Our wrists dragged down by invisible cuffs. 

Our toes dangling at the top of postcards. 

The ruins of the Greenwood District filling the unemployment office. 

The heads downcast, death-marching down the sidewalk.

The silent cry of a woman’s “NO.”

The batons that spray blood as they swing up and down. 

The K9 teeth sinking into marching legs. 

Wide-eyed baby girls staring at dolls strung up in trees.  

Bombs punishing high-rises and executing tourists.

Hearts that don’t beat good, their tom…. tomtomtoms unheard. 

Phyllis Wheatley on trial for writing while Black. 

A home, where Spiderman sneakers may stand on hardwood floors and a welcome mat, so we may learn the melody of jingling housekeys, so little infants may find a window to gaze out of while they dream, where our recipe boxes may be filled to the brim, so hangers have a purpose and closets overflow, where heads may rest on pillows and blankets after a long day of fighting for what we should have since Lady Liberty was a toddler.

We desire land. 

We pray for an end.

We write for peace. 

We fight for freedom. 

By any means necessary.