Tuesday, June 2, 2020

Listen, my loves, but not for me,
for I merely echo and repeat.
Listen, my loves, for the crack and the strain
of chords wrapping taut around his name,
his name, his name, his name, his name.
Feel it pop in your ears and thrum:
beats dropping, beating drops, throat numb.
Listen for the humming 
and listen for the hymn.
Listen for the chants and threats
and listen for the ring of bells 
cracked and horses reared. Listen 
for crumbling altars and listen 
for mother’s tears as they echo,
crawling and gasped across the desert 
of her cheek, so scarred by white men’s fears.
Listen for black voices and repeat their urgent cries.
My loves, if we do nothing, love itself surely dies.

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love notes
a ritual to start the work week