the truth crawls up my throat
my mouth shapes around it.
i taste the ashes of blk bodies,
they’ve blown in on the wind—
made my eyes milky with ghosts
who cannot rest with so much violence
floating underneath their skin.
i steel my tongue on their sorrowful song,
uncurl my spine, and wet my lips—
the truth comes pushing out,
its body small and blk.
too small to have seen a prison,
but life has a way of peeling blk bodies
away from their mother’s breast
to throw to the wild—
their only record of life left to the
tongues of old men and women.
(image by Nathaniel Tetteh via unsplash)