#bridgetrenee

I saw a video today of a young man being confronted by the police as he tried to make a transaction at a market.

“Put your hands behind your back” they exclaimed!

He tried, but before he could they choke slammed him onto the floor.

“Put your hands behind your back,” they insisted!

He tried, but before he could three officers contorted his limbs into submission.

“Put your hands behind your fucking back,” they demanded!

He tried, but before he could they tazed him.

In a choke hold.

Face down.

With all of his limbs held together by officers and restraints.

What they didn’t say was why. What they didn’t say was please.

What they didn’t have to say was “you are under arrest for being black.”

I am scared for my daughter.

I am scared for the brown mothers and their daughters.

I am scared for the black mothers and their daughters.

I am scared of men and their unconscious masculine fragilities.

I am scared for Mother Earth and her people-induced degradation.

I am scared of the devolution of Earths resources.

I fear for what will be left of the earth for our granddaughters.

I fear for the children in cages.

I fear for those who could be shot in the streets.

I worry for the children who are ripped from their mothers; I hurt for their mothers.

I worry for the children afraid to wander the streets; I hurt for their mothers.

I feel privileged to lay next to my daughter everynight in a warm bed but I feel anger that there are those that cannot.

I feel angry that the world is selfish and cruel.

I feel angry that change seems like working against a tide that buries progress under waves of repression.

But mostly I worry,

and worry turns to scare,

scare turns to fear,

fear turns to anger.

Do the jets drown out the sound of your own mind?

Does the thought of the people suspended in air make you feel weightless in a tank full of concrete?

Does the thought of never coming down keep you up?

I only know you as a secret. One that I can never tell. Deception runs through our veins like hell fire flowing down a volcano. Day one was met with a pinky promise to never sin again. But you and I were built in back room whispers and live on the ghost of what could be. We sin so good it’s worth the pain.

Lie to me again. Tell me I am yours. We can both laugh at the irony while we gather our clothes. Return to reality, retreat from our our surrender. Tomorrow we will store this away with the other things we can’t put down.

Drink this desire and inhale your breath; I may never get another chance. Was it real if nobody else knew? What is fantasy and what is memory?

My therapist told me we are a box inside a box inside of my garage. She asked me to take us out and throw us away. Grieve, she said. I asked, over what?