I can't breathe

Because the image of knees on neck constricts my chest

and chokes words that want air to aspirate, to navigate open

spaces to air grievances because such an image sears

memory, suffocates senses and sends signals to

hold tightly my blackness in breathless pose

because watching the news is not safe, I tell you.

Not when police patrol but justice does not roll, not when

streets flame, glass shatters and crowds gather in a pandemic,

masked masses unmasking a nation’s naked shame

because we heard him say it again: I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe because history heaps weights on my head

heavy like lead and I walk like I’m bearing baskets of books

to market—volumes that store our stories, that state policies

obsolete like the dead though I want to save the living

Black boys still breathing and beg them:

When the police stops you, start your phone recording and smile

sweetly. Speak clearly. Answer, ‘Yes, Officer.’ Show your hands

slowly. Give your hands promptly to their chains if asked

because you may be able to breathe deeply after,

you and your mother.

I can’t breathe because I’m singing blues from my playlist,

shaking fists and seeing strange fruit hanging on trees swaying

in southern breeze and feeling Billie’s heartbreak wet on my cheeks.

When will my breathing return to normal rhythms?

When will the caged bird sing its song in open air?

I can’t breathe because the root word, race,

and its derivatives thrice mentioned in the last two minutes

drained all air from the Zoom room and I hesitate to take the last

breath and leave breathless someone who just said:

“I’m not racist, but truth be told…”

But truth be told, I don’t know that you know how blackness

is lived in whiteness. Do you have truth enough to confront

white lies that underlie privileged truth because a different air

blows through your windows?

Aah, the room is spinning a web around me and I am caught.

I can’t breathe. Can you?