Anger is here, is a stone in my heart.
Ancestry covered by television, commerce, lives lost in trinkets
must be remembered and must be imagined.
Push the moveable type to the side.
I will roll the runes of our makeshift past
in the erasable dust, stone against stone.
I will crush this forgetfulness awake.
I will make you remember
That I am warrior, soft and unyielding
and burning as the Sun.
I am a mother in a son’s body,
my intuition bold which laces language magnetic.
My anger is a feather set within wings
which this Owl punches against darkness in her deliberation.
In her deliberate hunt, she delights in night flying,
intuits movements and refines her path in infrared.
Armored cowards have taken the lives of our mothers, sisters, fathers, and sons
with cluster bombs and small pox. With land mines
they pollute playgrounds. When the mines explode, taking limbs
and tiny lives, the perpetrators make a sign, sigh, “Ah, well.”
I am ashamed for the color of my skin.
I am ashamed for “my people,”
who live on cheap meat, metal and electricity, too much. Too much.