Theresa Davis

Brume


The air is heavy today. So full of contradictions and disconnected thought, 

I try my best to rise from it, to refuse the fog, desperate to conceal the things 

we wish we could un-see. Knowing the danger in that, we sit rooted to the 

spot watching our right to life dwindle with every trigger pull.

 

If the air was more brume, maybe we wouldn't see the blue line they cross 

as they claim victory. Legal thug runners holding starter pistols aimed, not at 

the sky, but at the invisible visible targets painted on our chests, our backs, 

our heads.

 

I remember a time when Officer Friendly was clear, when he showed up in 

class for career day taking a bite out of crime. These days he is 

Officer Questionable. Do I call when I need help only to be chalk outline 

after you arrive?

 

I knew a black boy once who, when asked what he wanted to be when he 

grew up, stood tall and proud and said: officer of the law. These days, all he 

wants to be when he grows up and the fog lifts is alive.

 

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