A wall and a classroom of black students:
to this end heaven comes for us
with open arms and a principle of
parables. nothing eats your bones so hard
than a stranger reading
meaning to your name. we are end of things here.
in places that don’t support the holes in our blood
i have learnt to describe myself with myself
not with other things becoming taller than oneself.
i have played the struggle of anything, but not the birds
that keep their friendship in their grave. not the smell that
keep our hands from stretching beyond—
they say a wall doesn’t mean freedom is cheap
but for every step we take they keep to rent our skin with their lyrics
they wanted us running with legs on our head
this is not a poem leading you to where you never wanted
because i still see everything ending with tears
there is no peace in a place that doesn’t
carry one’s body to the sun for respiration
this is me, and everything that concerns you.
this is us, and everything that speaks about them
this is them, because things given a name don’t grow where fear resides.
Poem © Adeniran Joseph
Image by wdkunze from Pixabay (modified)