THERE IS WATER IN THE SUN

iumu

BLACK LIVES MATTER

this is america plays in the suburbia while the cicadas trip over themselves to find escape from prying eyes
you can hear their thin legs tumbling and tangling — suffocating — in their paranoia to remain nameless in their growing noise
there is movement under the trees where a group of teen boys are mimicking childish gambino's dance movements and joking about the situation
one mimes being lynched
another mimes being shot
one pretends to hold a friend in a chokehold
as the boy laughs and says "i can't breathe!"
before play struggling
and the cicadas are louder as across town they hear the sound of another group of teen boys only there is no time for mimicking movements they've been taught since birth
and they are singing and dancing when the sirens come and the police arrive
and "-but officer we were just hanging." are words tucked into the air
hanging above them longer than the rounds dispatched into their chests

tell me - how many times can a heart be shot at and still be expected to hold forgiveness?
tell me - how many times have little fingers holding toy guns flashed big tall and dangerous and suddenly turned little fingers into hollowed eyes?
tell me what's the sound a mother makes when she can hear her baby hit the floor to the sound of a bullet discharging
the distant plink! of it hitting the ground?

and tell me why a white body can hit the ground in the middle of the forest and make the earth quake
but a black body hitting pavement sounds like adding another stitch to a quilt that's never quite finished?
-

and one goes down with his hands held and one goes down with his eyes closed and two go down with their eyes watching the sky
and we don't mourn their deaths the way we mourn the immorality of the other boys
because black boys are men before children and white boys are clenching training wheels to their sides and still whimpering over bruised knees from deciding not to wear padding
because we give attention to every action they did but black lives don't get a minute to breathe out their names before hitting the ground
-

and this is america plays on the radio
and the cicadas are wondering when making music turned into making a buffer
when did people become cicadas trampling over one another to shift blame
hide shame with cicada songs making deaf ears contract blindness
and bodies hit the floor a the cicada sends off the growing paranoia of prying eyes
and this is america
oh this is it alright