Deep toned I enter
Hyper aware, used to observing and acknowledging identities
around
I think I feel safe enough here
Fair toned he saunters
eye contact made
I recall our previous encounter
how he said he grew
“What’s it like to wear the glasses?” I ask earnestly.
“what glasses?” he responds bewildered.
“The ones you had on for months…
Mr. Floyd, Mr. Arbery, Ms. Taylor?”
countless others.
“oh yes, a shame.”
“Where are the glasses now?”
“i think i misplaced them.”
“Are they not too valuable to lose?”
“they were.
but i grew tired of them. they irritate my face.”
Process. Only when unable to ignore does he put them on;
when a slain black body infiltrates every aspect of his life
“I wonder what that’s like,” I murmur
meanwhile I know.
My glasses are sown to my face
rooted in melanin, beauty, and generational trauma
That body is my mom, my dad, my uncle, my aunt,
my ancestor angels above
but you grew tired
so the world keeps chugging and shrugging
crossing fingers
and accepting fleeting wins as permanent solutions
“I hope you find your glasses!”
