Modern Justice

Written: December 23rd, 2018

The body deconstructed becomes currency,

every organ laid bare and malleable into dollar signs.

The descendancy of my skin implanted in my tongue,

my voice extracted under the assumption of crimes.

Thick accent and hair I inherited from my mother,

garners no significance to officers that smell like the morgue.

In a country of fabricated fables, how do white folks understand suffering,

When it’s not a Facebook Filter or a podcast on NPR.org?

The monopoly on my heritage mingles with the candidates,

political platforms betting on my country of birth and lifespan,

as though you could debate logic and humanity

with those who breed conspiracy with the sight of a caravan.

In the land of liberty, they feed you apple pie,

a dry crust filled with generational poverty,

and suggestions from the recruiter to not even bother to apply.

As a child, I was never scared of the dark or the bogeyman,

In an America with no love for black or tan,

I learned to fear the badges that were members of the klan.

Under constant vigilance, even the strongest can succumb to assimilation,

especially when it’s wrapped in acceptance,

decorated with “do not cross” and “caution”,

and brightly-colored tape that smells like disinfectant.

The quest for justice on stolen land is not immune to disease, 

It’s withheld by the ancestors of government,

and employers of systems of oppression,

those who profit on a racism as an incentive rather than a symptom.

Modern justice postponed to those who inherited the skin of survivors

Is not built into the altered lines of the constitution,

The real taste of freedom is prison doors opening, 

and televised images of dark bodies leading the revolution.