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2020 Quarantine Killings by Playon PatrickAnd they ask: how do black boys write about their city?How do we know street if we don't know un-cracked sidewalk?They ask: how do these black boys know anything about their city?How the buildings are sitting on corners where brothers' bodiesare still learning how to rot.There are small crosses placed in the grasswhere families cannot afford to bury their loved onesReminds my brothers and I that we are early gravesbefore we are anything else.We call those corners playgrounds,We call those corners the killing fields.We call our bodies bullets even if we were never aimed in the right directionWe called the remnants of our mother's family the Diaspora tree.We make a catalog of prayers out of broken handsWe pray for our family tree to make its way back home to this soil.We use our hands to dig the graves we cannot afford.We are farmers - our broken black bodies - We have never know city, never known comfort,Never known safe street in any city.We use our feet to walk streets paved by sunlight,And asked our shadows if they meant to choose this skin.We make a catalyst of bodies our dinner menuAnd we eat with our eyes closed.We are fed lies so easily it tastes like medicine.Always conflicted between being black and being people.I wish God could have given us a choice.For years we have been told that there is something we need to scrub off this bodyAs if this dirt could go awayWorking in the field make you realize how easily black can cook in the sun.How easily we turn on each other for a little slice of the pie.We don't know this city - how it was built with our grandmother's arthritic hands.how we wouldn't have gotten a house or a bed when it was first builtWhen it was first settled - when it was first taken from the IndiansWhen our God believed in the same beginning.We don't know home.We don't know how generations of our people could use these legsCould run miles on end into the nightOur faces bedazzled with the remnants of the starsWe will forever search for our forefathers' footstepsWe don't know home - we know runWe know this land has never been oursWe know how to fold ourselves into nothingWe know our sweat and tears tenderize this soilSomehow we make fertilizer for the soilWe know how to make these hands be usefulWe are the farmers of every revolutionNo country was built without the piling up of dead bodiesThis country just happens to be where our dead were dragged and hung up.America: the land of the free and home of the braveWe fought and died for that slogan right beside our white brothersDoesn't that make us worth something?Tonight a riot is the language of the unheard ― Playon Patrick

2020 Quarantine Killings by Playon PatrickAnd they ask: how do black...

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