Asante Keron Hamid

She thought she saw me on the TV.
We all look the same, only
when she cannot come
to know enough of us to see
beauty in difference.
She remembers a TV free of color.
The glory days of her Americana
where a flown firebomb through
Birmingham, Alabama was enough to
wipe her room of the unwanted shade.
Life was easier then —
As easy as telling a dog to
fetch while it scurries away
returning with a colored arm
in teeth.
She bears arms.
The right to own a gun is angry
fashion with its opened mouth, a
parrot with the shutter speed to name
the sport ‘dead body photography’.
She’s seen me in everyone on the TV.
There’s no separating Cyrus and
Bieber from me ‘til the singing headlight
of a siren shakes one
of us into silence.
We should’ve listened.
I ask her who the public servants are. I ask
her if routine traffic stops toward quota have
become a public game of Simon Says. I ask
her rhetorically for the casualties of war.
I say:
Oscar Grant III, Philando Castile, Sandra Bland, Sean Bell

Michael Brown, Freddie Gray, Tamir Rice, Eric Garner
Trayvon Martin, Alton Sterling, Aiyana Jones, Rekia Boyd
Walter Scott, Stephon Clark, Asante Hamid.
She couldn’t see.
We weren’t just recurring characters
locked in a drama. The boycotted Bill
Russell-era Boston Celtics. Black. Sci-fi. Black.
The evening news. Black — we were more.

Bildschirmfoto 2018-05-06 um 19.42.41

Born and raised in the eclectic grit of Brooklyn, NY, Asante Keron Hamid is a poet/writer with a mind for music and an ever-widening love for socially conscious thoughts and ideas. Find him on Instagram at @poetuntitled_.

Featured image: The Tomb of the Wrestlers by René Magritte. Read the reason we used this image here.

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