He said that I write
With a pen dipped in blood
But I wonder
Is it my blood
That bring down whole buildings
That cut people up
Anger that starts in your belly
Works it way up into your heart
And out your eyes like lasers
Mountains move at this type anger
And whole societies are built
With this kinda anger
This is that anger that yo mama
Warned you about.
My hands are soaked in gore
From beating against this pavement
Trying to dig holes in concrete
With nothing but nails and fingertips
So that I can plant this precious seed
Given to me as a gift from those
Mothers that came before.
Can you cultivate plants from stones?
The lines on my palms are cracked and hard
Callouses rising to meet the scabrous sandpaper of daily living
A physical reminder
Of memories and histories
That have not passed.
His death is as keenly felt today
As it was 50 years ago
The latest felled tree
In a long line of deforested land.
I will chain myself to my lover
And bomb the logger’s machines
And shoot down the lumberjack himself
Before they harm even a limb
I still worry that won’t be enough.
The conversation is the same every time
A corrupted MP3
On repeat for 400 years
We debate over it’s very existence
Does a colored queer actually rage
If there is anyone around to feel her?