there are still strikes when the blood and
adrenaline fight for the limelight
when I am abandoned and separate, kneeling
over you while you bargain with death
on the floor of our iron-scented kitchen.
I am still living the day when I discovered
who else I am, and you transformed from shattered
remnants of grief, duct tape broken teeth
fractured bones bruises and wicked loathing
that only a human made to feel that they
must be separate, can comprehend.
I am still living the day in anguish only
a black boy can know when his father forces
his breath and hands and his mother chooses
the vile deranged beast year after year, behind
the guise of a debt her young children owe.
I am still living the day when your agony
frothed to the surface and you transformed
from an other black man to the solitary
conclusion of yourself, while I knelt beside you
in our afternoon kitchen.
© 10.9.2020 heather brager
art: Tomas Watson
