& it is history
black people dragged away from a loving embrace
first a country
then our children
& now the corner of franklin & 11th where
on the sidewalk
a man’s hands are wrapped around his mother
a final look before she is taken
into a day in which he cannot reach her
there is a kiss & the pass of a brief moment
& now she has found her refuge
next to the woman with a smile
swelling between her cheeks
& a phone fastened in her hijab
& i imagine on the other end
of the conversation is a shoulder
pushed up against a wall, a phone’s cord
wrapped around a body
& then wrapped around a finger
& seated not far away
is the homie with the gold
cross hanging from his neck
music pouring into his ears
his face spilling with teeth
as if this entire year & its demands
could fit in his palms
his for the taking
this poem is a small ode
for the great many things that have kept us here
longer than we were promised
a litany for the horses
pulling us through the streets lined with our peril
i know it is easy
to consider the slow draw
of the clock & its hands
that meet at our necks
but i am here nonetheless
hoping to romance my people
under what light is left in this season
a gratitude best savored
in wake of the two boys
who, before disembarking at Riverside Ave,
paused for a moment
to look each other over
no large or brief terror settled in their eyes
only their sheathed fists meeting together
in the unfurling peace between them
a recognition, mostly
but also a coping
a laugh before walking into the maw of the world
once more
i do not know who they are
but i wish to hold them close
o holy nest
of what carries us toward
uncertainty beyond the hill
grant us the mercy
of your hands for just
a moment longer
hold us lucky
from the woe
that grows hungry
for our names