how we can slice a human mind in two
while the skull is intact. lying
in the most conspicuous places,
white crime usually dresses in business suits
and we mistake them for flesh and blood men.
as though words create new realities,
Zelenskyy, I have my popcorn
ready to hear you wax eloquent.
i witness you running with adrenaline chiseling
a new rib in your chest. you think you see
a porch light on, hear a tv commercial cooing
through an open screened window,
a credenza with family photos.
surely this will be a sane place to get help.
the adrenaline in your chest pounds on the front door.
you expect the man to see your humanity.
help – call the police, you scream!
there are bodies!
you are treated like a Black boy
running for your life in the middle of the night,
dahmer in a business suit, chasing you with loaded gun
and ginsu knives in holsters.
a man with little hands, answers the door
with a rifle by his side.
vladimir is pulling the ventriloquist trigger.
you think this hollow man who opens the door
and walks away is offering salvation.
his vance hisses from the sofa,
what kind of man runs for his life improperly dressed?
you deserve to be killed, resurrected, and killed again.
You remind me of one of those Black boys I ate for lunch yesterday.
and you suspect the man who answered the door
has been on the phone talking to dahmer –
because he has. he saunters into the kitchen
to turn on the oven.
You are his favorite type of bull’s eye.
all of your eloquence is shattered.
there is no explaining the final moments.
witnessing a lynching on national tv.
you want to report a murder, but it has already happened.
this is the nightmare replay warning – this could be you.
six-foot-four, George Floyd, calls out to Mama.
he is surrounded by cannibals
wearing uniforms woven from human scalps.
we pretend we didn’t see president little hands
pull the string of chauvin’s knees into Floyd’s neck.
George is looking at you Zelenskyy – saying,
I was murdered for $20,
We all have a price tag in this regime.
George smiles at Mama and says tell him.
and Mama and i say in unison… the way we see it,
Zelenskyy you look like a Black boy
knocking at the wrong door.
Romaine Washington is a twice-nominated Pushcart Prize poet whose work has also been nominated for Best of the Net. She is the editor of These Black Bodies Are… A Blacklandia Anthology (Inlandia Institute). Washington is the author of two poetry books, Purgatory Has an Address and Sirens in Her Belly Her writing has been widely anthologized and she has presented her poetry in many programs, including Inside Socal CBS2/KCSL9, NPR, and KPFK. She has been an educator for over twenty years and is currently editing work for a Black Mental Health anthology. www.romainewashington.com.