Poets are calling you and asking to reach hands far past your tounge, far down your throat, even past your heart.

Plainly touch the lining of your stomach and ask what freedom is? What is the taste? What was the bite where it clicked and you knew that your open heart could be matched by the open hands of loved ones? With open mouths hoping to be fed too.

When all else fails, food will prevail and the shadow its casts is our blackness. Each time blackness has to leave behind its belongings, seeds still find a way to take root in new lands, across bloodied seas. The olive branch knew its darkness by way of the blackbird, exploring, discovering, peaking at the discontents of the flood. Meanwhile the whiteness of the dove held all the attention, leaving fugivity to sliver under caves inbetween rocks.

So as skies clog and fill with streams of lightning, ask yourself how your freedom tastes as it quietens the chews under fire? Where is the signature char as you bask plainly on Kingdom’s shining grill? Those flames are all comsuming and their hunger knows no edge. A hunger which means to no end.

How is it possible to even notice a crunch or dropping of a spoon over the noise? Oil splutters and spits over the countertop, and yet we are settled, seered shut, where empire’s worn out muscle clings onto whatever liquid it can before its grip is sliced open again. Spread out on the plate like sirloin.

Before one can complain about how your class betrayal still fails you under white supremacy, understand that complicity in a destructive system will never save you. In protecting one asset of Blackness under the west and to capital, the global class of blackness will remain under subjection.

(Title taken frm a tweet by Post Momstaza Mehri)


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