Same Sun, Different Sky

In a world where black boys hang from trees,

Swinging aimlessly towards an eastern sunset,

Towards a heavy-lidded horizon, falling to rise again,

We wait for mother morning to raise her gaze and

bless us with a holier light because our darkness

has no night to carry the moon of our grief.

We howl like wolves begging for guidance,

but it won't come when the white man dangles our moon

like an opal necklace—a hypnotist —swinging back and forth,

aimlessly towards the western sunrise,

towards a bleached horizon, towards this scream.

We wait for night to lower her gaze because

we are too bright to suffer another solar eclipse.