Should I give you understanding
for your murder and hate
for your monochromatic dreams
fueled by terror and guns?
As you look at your own pale face
in the mirror
does it make your blood run?
What do you fear?
What do you fear?
Should I reject your shuttered understanding,
your insistent demanding
that this land beneath our feet
is rightfully white?
Even you can't pretend
that before your ancestors landed
there were nations here,
their face, not your face,
reflecting, refracting
in the lakes and rivers
you claim to own.
Even you can’t pretend
that named and nameless millions
were dragged from their home shores
only to make your pockets heavy
only to be ripped from family
only to be abused, raped, killed
unceremoniously billed
as 3/5ths of your humanity.
This truth delivers us
to your uncomfortable
denial—
Should I place you on trial?
Whose home is this home?
I’m as guilty as you
for slipping past the terror
invisible in my anonymous skin.
But I know I am guilty
and I admit I don’t know
where my balance rests
between easy anonymity,
accidental ignorance
and my twisting, burning sorrow
for those you want dead.
Would you change your tune of hate, given the chance?
Or would you choose to continue
your terrifying, destructive
immolating
dance?
CHM
8/2017
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