In memory of George Floyd, killed in Minnesota,
USA, by a white police office..., May, 2020
He called for Momma, and every momma of every race:
black, white, asian, hispanic, native-american,
rose up to answer the call. But one outran them all:
she and her kind were used to running
from the rabid slave hunter
vicious dogs
through the underground railway
from every street where jim crow
deemed them nothing but worthless vagabonds.
How many nights in her head had she urged her son, "Run, run.
If they catch you they'll kill you. Take the back streets and alleys
and run, run on home."
Today she hears him calling "Momma!" and she's confused:
Where is his man's voice? What terror could so grip him
that he is a child again?
And she's running, running...
until she reaches the narrow but eternal bridge she cannot cross,
and there he lies, all six foot, six of him, "I... can't... breathe"