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THE MICROSCOPES Heavy and expensive, hard and black With bits of chrome for points of pride, they looked Like baby cannons, the real children of war, and I Hated them for that, for what our teacher said They could do, and then I hated them For what they did when we gave up On stealing looks at each other’s bodies To press a left or right eye into the barrel and see Our actual selves taken down to a cell Then blown back up again, every atomic thing About a piece of my coiled hair on one slide Just as unimportant as anyone else’s Growing in that science Class where I learned what little difference God saw if God saw me. It was the start of one fear, A puny one not much worth mentioning, Narrow like a pencil tucked behind the ear, But, by certain grace, lost when I reached for it To stab someone I secretly loved. A bigger boy who’d advance Through those tight, locker-lined corridors shoving some Without saying Excuse me, more an insult than a battle. No large loss. Not at all. Nothing necessary to study Or recall. No fighting in the hall On the way to an American history exam I almost passed. Redcoats. Red blood cells. Red-bricked Education I rode the bus to get. I can’t remember The exact date or Grade, but I know when I began ignoring slight alarms That move others to charge or retreat. I’m a kind Of camouflage. I never let on when I’m scared Of conflicts so old they seem to amount To nothing—dust particles left behind really— Like the viral geography of an expanding country Or like the most recent name of an occupied territory I imagine you imagine when you see A white woman walking with a speck like me. RIDDLE We do not recognize the body Of Emmett Till. We do not know The boy's name nor the sound Of his mother wailing. We have Never heard a mother wailing. We do not know the history Of this nation in ourselves. We Do not know the history of our- Selves on this planet because We do not have to know what We believe we own. We believe We own your bodies but have no Use for your tears. We destroy The body that refuses use. We use Maps we did not draw. We see A sea so cross it. We see a moon, So land there. We love land so Long as we can take it. Shhh. We Can’t take that sound. What is A mother wailing? We do not Recognize music until we can Sell it. We sell what cannot be Bought. We buy silence. Let us Help you. How much does it cost To hold your breath underwater? Wait. Wait. What are we? What? What on Earth are we? What? DARK I am sick of your sadness, Jericho Brown, your blackness, Your books. Sick of you Laying me down All so I forget how sick I am. I'm sick of your good looks, Your debates, your concern, your Determination to keep your butt Plump, the little money you earn. I'm sick of you saying no when yes is easy As a young man, bored with you Saying yes to every request Though you're as tired as anyone else yet Consumed with a single Diagnosis of health. I'm sick Of your hurting. I see that You’re blue. You may be ugly, But that ain’t new. Everyone you know is Just as cracked. Everyone you love is As dark, or at least as black.
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