post-riot summer
for a while, i am most whole
on two wheels. in mid-june
i join chanting cyclists and
i am one of few
Black folk in a space demanding my own qualities of matter.
the peculiarities of hearing this crowd chant Black Lives
Matter Whose Streets
Our Streets
with their too-full tote bags
leaves a metallic
taste in my mouth. wondering
just how long before
the mass return to uncaring.
by october I find comfort in the ordinary state of affairs
wilted cardboard signs in windows on streets long-rid of Black
communities. business windows tattooed with black fists to ward off broken
glass. whisper in my ear how you would’ve voted
for obama again, and
again, it feels so right. while I get my hair cut the woman
bubbles I moved here from bed-stuy and I just
love fort greene, I mean, I know
it’s a little gentrified but the families
are so cute
and everyone has dogs