Francisco-Luis White
In The Mourning
Wake to another day of America,
merciless with stars in her eyes.
Her bosom for the free — market and white men — exposed.
Her faithful court of all stripes circling her alabaster seat, desperate, abuzz.
You can’t help but wonder at the sight of her about limits to redemption.
She has lied so well for so long to herself, to us
and us to her, all wanting to believe in lies older than her name.
Our deaths are sanctioned, we know.
Her foot soldiers stand in blue and blood.
Can’t help but to hope we’re at the cusp of anything but this.
Perhaps it’s because she believes it’s the blood
of Christ she’s washed in that she is forgiven,
that bullets in Black backs, in Black babies are a sacrament.
America’s cup does run over;
can’t help but consider what might be incentive enough for her to change.
If not shame, or fire, or protest is persuasion
it’s doubtful she can be loved patiently into it.
Gifts to her won’t suffice, we know,
as we’ve been taxed, long-suffered and gone without.
One can’t help but imagine now, the ways of doing without Her.
Francisco-Luis White is an Afro-Latinx poet and storyteller living in the District of Columbia.