For Michael Brown and Fergusson


16

Beneath a black moon
I bled for the mountainside
And for the homeless
In the city of the valley
Where night spurs

In black flanks
Piercing the stars
With the cold whisper
In my throat, life had been
The scent of a flower on a knife

Survival had not come easy
Far away and alone
The black moon did not know
How to shriek for bonfires
The voice that did not know songs

What do you carry, oh
Black youth, beaten by police?
Mixed with your blood
But the true roots of Africa?
Beneath a black moon

The white man, the young race
Is still privileged, but these
Salt tears are not for them
Not for men in suits
Born of privilege and an easy life

I bled for strangers
Killed in a chase-down
Slaves to poverty and ghettos
Where children carry guns.