Pizarro yawned with a poison tongue
lifting the sails of boats around him.
Beaten into us, the rhythm of chains,
arched backs through el modo de producción esclavista.
America’s black children, fugitives of the night
running through geographies widened in sleep.
Each nigger torn from a history
each history robbed of an afternoon
each afternoon filled with bitterness and death.
They would have us think slavery had befallen
our lives, and our poverty something sweet
enough to sing along to, simplified.
When were we more than great books
written over seas, indignant diaries of priests,
man’s gift to queens grown tired of jewels
and cruel desires turned
sugar and pearl countries?