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.
