will the women bleed too?

 

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they took to the streets with
their faces carved like clay pumpkins
mad because the eclipse had come

shadow season
when all the light turned
into  puddles of melted ice

 

a black man clad in rusted audacity
stood in the sacred place
on a soapbox made of multi-colored fear
that looked like marbles crushed to white dust

 

he told them

i am  king
behave like silence

they tied ropes around the necks of dreams
to crush windpipes
like fruit.  sweet black sap
molasses blood, coated the tarmac
as broken lines, or passing zones
ways to get around
to circumvent a shift

 

we had never seen so many boys

shadow colored

strung up at one time
like christmas lights
in the spruce or the pine
til that day

 

the day boys fell out of car doors bleeding
and babies watched their daddies die
when women moaned atop burning cars
mourning the broken backs of sons

no longer breathing, just laid plain out in the sun
to bake like  breathless memories on the street

 

or the people in the church
who prayed for blankets of salvation
to cover up sin

 

it’s all covered under blood now…
covered under blood

 

but this time not divine
and no one came to christ
instead they went the other way

 

and all because the eclipse had come
and told them he was king

 

but the women are coming
they are loud and full of steel
their bones been broke a thousand times
and still they walk like men

 

when the women come
to fix the order of the room
move things where they belong
clean up all the blood

 

i am wondering
will it then be menseason too?

 

will our girls lay out in the sun
spread eagle across the street
their legs one coast to the other
polluted oceans between them

 

will guards drag women from their homes
to remind them what grass tastes like
face down in the dirt
their asses splayed like sliced meat
and lightning piercing their labia
while torches light the room
in front of an audience of multi-colored fear

 

the kind that keeps you in the house
makes you push your eye through peepholes
before turning knobs to the left

 

i wonder will our mothers and grandmothers
lay on the altar  this time
instead of isaac
while abraham loves his god

 

and will their bodies change in such a way
that their flow will not cease flowing
their legs drip thick streams of broken hope
that shames them back inside
into a corner of their

silent and broken again

 

i wonder when they come

will the women bleed too?

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