By the time the bloomsUnfurl themselves for a few hours of light, the women who tend themAre already at work. Blue. I’ll never know who started the lie that we are lazy,But I’d love to wake that bastard upAt foreday in the morning, toss him in a truck, and drive him under GodPast every bus stop in America to see all those black folkWaiting to go work for whatever they want.

My mother grew morning glories that spilled onto the walkway toward her porchBecause she was a woman with land who showed as much by giving it color.She told me I could have whatever I worked for. That means she was an American.But she’d say it was because she believedIn God. I am ashamed of AmericaAnd confounded by God.

I will not shoot myselfIn the head, and I will not shoot myselfIn the back, and I will not hang myselfWith a trashbag, and if I do, I promise you, I will not do itIn a police car while handcuffedOr in the jail cell of a townI only know the name ofBecause I have to drive through itTo get home.

We do not recognize the bodyOf Emmett Till. We do not knowThe boy’s name nor the soundOf his mother wailing. We haveNever heard a mother wailing.We do not know the historyOf this nation in ourselves. WeDo not know the history of our-Selves on this planet becauseWe do not have to know whatWe believe we own.