I’ve been trying to draw a map this morning-
chart the distance between
Black rage and dead Black bodies.
so far I’ve been outlining our ontology,
tracing round the landmass of
Renisha, Aiyana, Eric, Michael-
the names become too many
the landmass too large.
I’ve been attempting to chart
the scale of this rage,
i close my eyes to do a field measurement,
feel the acid building in my mouth-
wonder where this might take me now,
i give into the logic of the juju-
as in – collective memory,
embrace the time machine of my body
and hold counsel with
George Jackson, Nat Turner, Toussaint Louverture-
hands still tightening,
feel like root worker’s hands,
executing their magic now.
i continue to tracing my steps
and the distance between
these bodies and this rage,
closer than i thought it was-
momentarily open my eyes now
find myself in a ghost story
i mean america
no i mean a ghost story.
america is a ghost story
and its tucked just beneath our skin,
boiling in our blood,
no need to map the distance
between this rage and this body,
all we need do is momentarily open our eyes,
embrace the witness in our blood,
hold a stubborn course-
the dead, the living and the unborn
circling round as we pronounce
the circumference, and the texture, and the depth
of the world we are no longer content to live without.