What we wrestle, in time, becomes art and poetry.
CZVasser
I thought it was the rain
running down my cheek
I thought it was the flood
wetting my socks
I thought it was the ashes
of burnt promises
pressed upon my head
I thought my breath
would last until
I reached the surface
I cried until the roses bloomed
I held a hand too long
I have a list of eyes
I have looked into
none of them the orb
I thought you would be.
Now that the lights are out
warm and dark
the kids long gone
so is she
I’d rather sleep in the middle
between fetal
and spread eagle
not on my side
a back would be turned
there’s been enough of that.
Covered cold shoulders
pretended to be asleep
needed to work late
microwaved affection
pretended dinner.
Now that it’s all gone
I can hold closed eyes
hollar like church singing
find peace in what’s left.
I promise not to cut my feet.
From the earliest poems of Langston Hughes.
I do not hate you,
For your faces are beautiful, too.
I do not hate you,
Your faces are whirling lights of loveliness and splendor, too.
Yet why do you torture me,
O, white strong ones,
Why do you torture me?
BLACK LIVES MATTER
