“I am a feminist.”
“What a white word.
It’s an Expensive word”
“Am I, a feminist?”
“You tell me. Is this what they are
teaching you in that fancy college?”
“Feminists fight for
women’s right.”
“So did your grandmother.
We just called her, woman.
Time for dinner. Set the table”.
“Should I use the white
Laced tablecloth”?
“You are a feminist, you are a woman,
you can choose.”
another mother cries
she sobs
she tells the world her son, her daughter
was a good person
he/she didn’t deserve this
she tries to speak
her voice cracks, over and over and over
just like the deafening summer fireworks in Newark’s North Ward.
the cracking sound of a whip in the wind
ripping the smallest leaf from a branch of the sleeping willow tree
sharp. cutting. shattering. we hear her
our collective hearts grieve
crack. crack.
she is a mother of an unarmed black child killed by police
“mama, tell them I love them. mama I’m going to die.”
another mother cries
tonight, she is her far away, but she is here with me
I can say nothing
the sound of another mother’s broken heart keeps me awake
Iced out
locked out
put out
left out
moved out
no way out.
Stop.
Borders. Walls.
Not picked.
Chained up.
Go over there. Masked required.
Alone in the cell.
Cold.
Concrete.
Chill. Ghosted.
No likes. No response. Not invited.
No playmates.
I—so-late I—-So—l—-At—isolation
Life in Quarantine: Witnessing Global Pandemic is an initiative sponsored by the Poetic Media Lab and the Center for Spatial and Textual Analysis at Stanford University.
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