I chew my lips and taste the blood.

Every day
My “black mother of a black baby”
rage bubbles like the worts
my lover brews
on dark rainy nights,
when he can no longer sleep or dream.
Another child murdered
at the hands of wild hogs
repeating on our screens—
Their screams keep me up all night
and beat me back down;
as the sun rises,
I boil, then still—
A hot bath of Skunky American brew.

Will my daughter ever know justice?
Or will she sit uncomfortably with the
rank taste of inequity and iron
on her lips too? I refuse to
Go down without a fight because
with trust in her heart she leans
into MY chest at night;
with fire in her eyes she reminds me
that one day she too will be ready to fight
this same fight
if it calls her.