This is when you become
political:
this unarmed black boy shot
this white killer cop not
charged but given three months paid
vacation plus one million
dollars in thanks for
this job well done.
This happened yesterday, too,
the day before that. They used to say
this:
Dance, nigger dance and empty their guns
laughing—
this was their theory:
if you could rise fast enough the bullets
would not hit your feet.
This, the weight
of five centuries that did not break your back.
This, you were scared of then.
This, you stiffened silent
and bore.
This will happen again
tomorrow. Different city, different dead
black boy body. But now
this straw needle.
Oh, how your baby boy loves to dance. His legs, though,
are little. He could never jump, high enough.
Request: Permission to Occupy Your Body, Roger Reeves
From Within the Dark-Blood Depths, Rachel Eliza Griffiths
Other Outrages, Other Deaths, Rion Amilcar Scott
A Brief History of the Present, Morgan Parker
Rachel. Trayvon. Michael. Dying. Laughing. A. Fiction., Kiese Laymon
How Do You Write From a Country That Doesn’t Exist, Danielle Evans
To not write another word about who the cops keep killing, Khadijah Queen
Am I a Reliable Witness to My Own Life?, Sarah Labrie
Keyword Search: “Ferguson” and “Mike Brown”, Angela Flournoy
Breath of Fresh Air, Yahdon Israel
A Very Brief History of Police Killings in the U.S., Metta Sáma
