Melanin is precious and sold by the pound,
just as bucks, pickinnies and mammies were
and are and always will be because there is always
amusement that corresponds to the death
of the Black body–
born celestial, holding power, light,
and all color, seeing it reduced of life,
ashen and quiet.
The world loves when we are quiet.
When tongues are no longer fire
Ears no longer the attentae for
what is wrong, missing or lingering–
Deaf to the ancestral, the integral and
hands prone and cold.
Reduced to pounds
gathered in shrouds,
bound, and hoisted inside
capsules to be planted in the ground
with the wails of the mourning
shaking the trees.
Hands reaching Heaven
because our shouts have not
reached, remembering that
the same Who remains yesterday,
today, and forever more promised
to be in the fire, the wind and the
earthquake, and in every breath.
To our last breath,
And when we can no longer fight,
we become seeds
to grow trees, to give strength
to the weary in need of rest.
We have mastered being in the world,
yet never being of it.
-(c) JBHarris, 12.24.2020