By: Taylor Zachary ~Staff Writer~
I have my mother’s mouth and my father’s eyes;
on my face, they are still together.
I have traveled outside
my body and returned
to bones cracked on pavement
& blood spilled in concrete seams.
I saw Katrina in my reflection,
red sea crashing between buildings:
Black bodies and babies drowning in breath
No oxygen is the logic of policy – pollution.
Suffocation is drowning out of water.
Snipers knelt behind American flag
& carved heaven
into my body
one inch at a time.
at a time.
My skin mixed with American blood
softens sharp bristles.
My Black cheeks laid across a blank canvas:
Standing and watching smiles go unanswered.
Ten seconds is the hallmark of four years.
Emails are not reconciliation.
I was taken to the top of the world and left on the floor.
My limbs extended into each corner of a page;
daggers were drawn across the surface of my chest.
Metal teeth cut into my organs.
White fingers touched my stomach.
Dreams were pulled from my sky
& tattered feet walked on my clouds like water.
When my lungs broke the surface tension of your palm,
I taught my heart how to breathe.
Today, I live caged between
lines, suffocated by thoughts
imprisoned to white space.
Our time flows like oceans returning to the sea.
Where is heaven if not all around me?
I am places inside myself you could not see
I swear. I know my destination.
I am just not there.
Xavier is America; God bless you if it’s good to you.
I followed your heart into the wild,
outran your love and denial;
I drank holy water,
meditated in your eyes,
& sat at the center of peace
the sound of earth cracked my bones
& I traveled outside myself…
Let love lead you home. Let redemption keep you warm.
Please, no more broken bodies.
Taylor Zachary is a senior sociology major and staff writer for the Newswire
from Oakland, Calif.