The Death Of The Black Body (Say Her Name: Dr. Susan Moore)

Always a mood…

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,

we fight.

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

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