Art by Lidia Altagracia

 

 

The tone of my voice

won’t allow me to start

revolutions; 

 

I read a book about introverts this morning

and shared Rosa Parks’ dilemma;

 

I read the latest news about Ahmaud this afternoon,

couldn’t breathe,

couldn’t sleep

for days;

 

Grabbed a knife and 

 

Took my anger out       on the entirety 

                                             of a large yellow onion,

 

remembering first grade when a white boy

stopped talking to me after his father spotted

my skin color holding his hand as we waited

for rides after school.

 

But adding faces to the archives while

at the protest in Jackson Square,

 

I am memory             of cold glares greeting me

                                         after defiant invitations 

                                         from white high school friends,                       

                                         and

 

Eyes                              witnessing purgatory,

                                        and

 

Ears                               for the whispers before 

                                        they resort to shouts,

                                        and

 

Hands                           turning pages, lending paperbacks

                                        For the expansion. 

 

The tone of my voice

won’t allow me to start 

revolutions; 

 

I am                               finishing the chapter about Rosa Parks,

                                        finding the footsteps

                                        where she first planted the bomb with silence. 

 

 

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