tonight:
no lemon slice moon,
no searchlight of white.
a black cradle for black bodies.

cylindrical wax, it’s all cyclical –

mike brown, eric garner,
freddie gray,
meagan hockaday

– across the street
white boy shreds black asphalt,

a sloppy chorus of happy birthday
spills like their foamy pints
over brown tables and black eulogies.

those pale faces, those pale fingers,
preoccupied more with the bubbling
and the stretch of their pizza cheese.

look up from your porcelain plates.
hear our rage bubbling,
see communities stretched translucent.

there is blood on your hands
and guilt to your name.