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
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