We Ask to Not Be Black

Mohamed Elhassan

It is like feathers which jut from naval cavities,
plucked and dipped in the indelible ink of

depersonalization. Wrap your arms around me and,
sway with the brazen gale atop the moor,

the hearse carries solemn oaths of ancestors who plead,
and their heads sharpened by the whetstone.

& I say,
ain’t that how life is,

Because it is falsities which are strung,
hallowed tune of the revered and acclaimed.

& there is a wooden chair that I sit on,
and I rock back and forth and I am told,

you ought to be thrown off for recklessness;
but you see, I am a kid.