Golden Shovel Meets Blind Goddess of Justice
… after Langston Hughes
You know how they do. They say that
we run, that we fit descriptions, but justice
ain’t blind, she just sees who she wants. Is
it any wonder we hold our breath? A
body ain’t a body when they label it a threat. Blind
fold her, watch her peek, call her a goddess.
Watch her drop the scales. Watch how balance is
a myth chased between our nana’s prayers and a
judge’s gavel. They got this thing
for claiming fear while standing over bodies. To
serve, to protect—who? Which
way to run when history's got a knee pressed upon the we
aried? Red light, blue light, a flash, a name gone black.
Mothers wailing thru the street. We are
n’t new to this. My father knew. And his father wise.
Still, she won’t look. Her
hands steady but the bandage
doesn’t stop her from peeking. It hides
but we see it slip. MLK's two
Americas on display. Wounds keep festering
and this country born of scars and sores
struts like a wayward siren. That
same scream, same prayer, same fear. Once
we thought time might change things. Perhaps
we were fools to hope. Seems we were.
Though standing here. Still, we look her in the eyes.
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