Daunte Wright- a poem

Daunte Wright
should be alive
his days spooling out ahead of him
threads of shiny possibility

“he was ours,”
his aunt said, “he came from us.”
his mother stood close by,
weeping

nothing compares to the love of
a being that comes from you
from your womb your line your blood
or your choosing

they are held, loved, cherished
through their growing and stretching
emerging into themselves

he was not yours to take!
his future was not yours

it does not have to be like this
all around the world people
walk
drive, and play
without fear

and then this boy
his young heart
stopping

“why do they hate us so much?”
one woman writes

why do they reach for their weapons?
aim them at Black boys
at young beautiful boys

my son is dreaming, his days ahead of him
maybe vancouver, maybe san francisco,
through his growing and learning
emerging into himself

there is a constant drumming in my heart
in my veins—where will he be safe?
not from crime, but from eyes
that cannot see
that he is ours.

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