I am always inclined
to question closed eyes–
lives lost in the street
and found on the news
for everyone to see.
I question closed eyes.
When my deep red blood is spilled by white hands,
all I can do is sing of the blues because
god forbid I choose to sing of something else.
I, too, sing America:
the answer is always yes,
even when the answer is no
because America only takes what he wants and calls it his
and this is why we can’t have nice things;
the night might bring a flash of light
to blind me,
lay me down,
and close my eyes to sleep uncomfortably under
thick blankets of hate and summer,
on the same streets
that many a person black like me
have fallen into before–
by flashing red and blue lights
and white men
who believe they can treat me like dogshit.
When we see each other, the safety is off
because each of them has a gun
and assumes I have one as well.
“Where’s your ID? I hope it’s not in your pocket.”
Contrary to what those with closed eyes may think,
he’ll reach for one of his tools,
as if to fix whatever laws I broke,
but instead he will try to break me,
and if I demand more answers or
ask for more
than what he decides to provide
I will be met with the hard surface of a wall
or the floor.
And if I’m lying I’m flying–
like black angels
who told that man that they were being hurt,
that they didn’t have anything to hurt him,
that the wallet which contained the ID he asked for was,
in their pocket.
A black body is a weapon.
So it must be dropped.
And I must question closed eyes.
And when I lay mine
on another post on Twitter–
“Another Nigger Has Died”
I must question those who decide
to close their eyes,
because when said nigger was still alive,
all they saw was black.