Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Flight and Ferguson

As anchored as I sometimes feel,
the birds swooping overhead remind me of


Winging in broad arcs
riding thermals I can’t see,
they don’t think of me,
don’t watch me in the day, or the dark.

All summer
They’ve been imprinted on the blue
Soundless and free over my
Car, walk, errands, cry,
Reminding me I can fly.

I don’t know what it would be like
If that feeling of flight was
Taken as casually as men in power
Took the lives of black sons in hoodies.

I see power, grace, flight.
If my children were in danger for being white,

Would I just see vultures?

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