but a century later, he was writing
just yesterday. this morning
whispers in the key of June 

Jordan, i’m ready for a moment 
she doesn’t speak to, a place 
Baraka wouldn’t recognize. 

i’m sick of looking at the world
and seeing their brutal inspirations. 
give Nikky Finney a chance to write

only memories. give Patricia Smith
nothing new to attend to. I’m tired
of writing poems to tailor 

the hem of my heroes’ grief. 
i’m seeking somewhere
our rage doesn’t rhyme. 

our children deserve our poems 
rendered senseless. 
the Black tradition is a locked room

where decades fold 
like origami around the truth
waiting for freedom unfold. 

it’s Wheatley’s fault, trapping us
in the lie she told to survive. 
‘Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land 

but it wasn’t mercy, was it? mercy 
wouldn’t have taught us English.