mists of leftover soil: on being Black in america
the question of aged earth remains how long does it take for rock edges to smooth?
for the perceived imperfections to diminish?
how many years before the chastising whip
of the water proves too much? before the warm and well-meaning winds lead to crumbling and buckling, dwindling the chunks of earth to nothing?
mists of soil, through air, between fingers one could wonder what else in nature acts this way coarse demanding unending
and so capable of forcing its way, unsure of the ultimate cost unkind
resulting in alleged exhale in palms spread, open to release control and waiting to feel a difference to accept blame for the lost and unrecognizable pieces
caring not of the lasting effect
we could call the rocks bones holding all ages and history deep within have we treated both the aged and lucid the same?
“perspective” and “devil’s advocate” and textbook rewrites, and Heritage Not Hate and confederate flags and “the war was actually about agriculture” and “you’re so well spoken” and the harm is still our fault and reverse racism and the nonprofit industrial complex and mass incarceration and bans on the way my hair grows out of my head and Black maternal mortality and still being afraid to drive through Alabama at night and and and
acting as the river beating, thrashing and trying to change our shapes until we’re gone, nothing but mists of soil, floating past what resembles memories on heavily edited pages
weighed, tested in strength integrity to tell their truth of their beginning with the wind their endless and unjust trials ending with the water
left with smoothed edges all the same
