we all know how to make a noose
yeah they teach us when we are young
when we are laughing
then we are in stitches
our cheekbones crack open concrete
you know we got this other pulse
in our nomad hearts
a cyanide vibration
when silenced we string ourselves up flagpoles
let the wind whip us into our own histories
before you script us a horror
and sign our names
we beam joy, breathe calls for justice
tie our names around your heart, and jump
just hoping our weight
will come and bury you
– for Sandra Bland and Kindra Chapman and the million other lied on women.
when we die in police custody, know our lives are being taken from us in so many ways, and our lives are precious. we are being killed, fast and slow, abruptly, methodically.
and this drives us mad and makes us depressed and hopeless.
no one wants to do this, to be grieving and angry and exhausted and disappeared and lied on and terrified all the time.
filling our lives with fear is a taking.
traumatic interactions with ‘authority’ is a taking.
having to grieve over sister-strangers is a taking.
having to explain that even though this country gives us every reason to give up, we do not, that fighters don’t hang themselves for traffic violations, we do not…this too is a taking.
life is a miracle, getting through the day shouldn’t be.
I want to rest, celebrate, dance, love, generate, heal, create. but every time I start to find a rhythm a new grief knocks me down.
everything I’m writing these days is about black rapture, resistance, resilience, black escape and safety, black love, blackness.
but today when I sit still to feel, all that rolls over me is black rage. what can I do to make this useful? what I do to move myself and others to anything better than this pain?
the only thing that pivots me away from the abyss is the question: how did my ancestors survive?
and I don’t know the answers, but I know that they did, and while I breathe I will, and while black people breathe we will.
but at what cost?