For black boys

and before memory was something to thank the Gods for
before there was a before to remember, before Lucifer turned
from choir boy to bully, before things learned to fall, before the sound of
crashing
shattered the night into a thousand and one prayers, before morgues
were the color of family reunions, we were Gods, and God was there too,
not as the Almighty, but as one of the mighty all.

Do you remember the golden skinned paths before they became sidewalks
crusted over with the blood of us like spilled kool-aid, like leaked jazz, like
rust?
Do you remember before your name was synonymous with fear, with
trouble,
with BANG!, with gone, with black suits and boxes and soil, with too young,
with shame,
with mercy, with mercy, with mercy? Do you remember before the white
ships,
winged like angels, took you to dance on new dirt, before they made you
dance
in wing-tipped shoes, your face smeared blacker than your black, your brown
lips
painted fat and red, only to feed your family, before you dodged lead-winged
sparrows
and couldn’t quite get the rhythm right? Before we had to remember you?
Do you remember?

Of course you don’t, no one does.

Make them.