—After Tariq Thompson
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What of would-be doctors born in chains.

Authors forbidden to carry pencil & paper.

Prospective politicians pecked to death by

Crow, left out to be lunch for vultures. To say

I was first is to deny those who were denied chance.

I hear you—there are billions of stars in the universe,

what we call the sun just happens to be the closest one,

the one that’s still alive. You get it, all them bones under

Alabama could’ve been put to better use in their living.

I see them in my dreams. Sometimes it’s hands reaching

out the muck like reeds in a swamp. Others, a meadow

overwhelmed with tulips, their yellow cups brimming

with yellowed teeth sent skyward like pollen when the

winds blow. I wish I knew what to make of this.

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