Punching the Air

That’s life, Amal
You have to respect it
she’d say

Maybe ideas segregate like in the days of
Dr. King, and no matter how many marches
or Twitter hashtags or Justice for So-and-So

our mind’s eyes and our eyes’ minds
see the world as they want to

Did Amal ever display emotions that were—

Yes, Ms. Rinaldi said
That’s why I work so hard with Amal
To channel his anger into his art

I’ve never hidden from thunder and fireworks
and angry shouts and gunshots and sirens
as if
I’ve never been afraid of monsters and
predators and animals and
my own face

So it wasn’t about
who threw the first punch

It was about courts, turf, space
Me and them other boys
were just trying to go home

and I thought I won, I had a rep

for being this hard little kid that nobody could mess with
and I didn’t even know how I was supposed to feel—

I always hated it Sagging

draws showing ass exposed
I wore mine high, right at the waist
sweatpants cinched at the ankles
with Adidas or Vans

As if bad paintings of smiling birds will
remind us that we’re still kids and
the metal doors will remind us
that we’re prisoners

My eyes are glued to that tattoo
I stare
at the details, the lines on the rope
the baby’s eyes closed, with tears
coming down its cheeks
Its skin made blacker
against his pale arm

Those guys didn’t touch my face
so she doesn’t know how my
insides have already
turned to dust
and it can’t rise
because it’s trapped here
in my belly

But we lived in the same building I was born in
and paid the same rent my whole life, so we were good

But on the other side, the big houses
(some painted in bright colors, others run-down)

got fixed up nice and painted over in grays and beiges
making that part of our hood look like a futuristic suburb

and soon there were invisible lines we couldn’t cross
like we can’t go where the nice places are

But you gotta understand
when one of you fall
everybody falls
or takes the fall
You know what I’m saying?

Butterfly, you’d have to promise me
you’ll change them out there, too
It can’t just be me
They gotta be different, too

I know your type, Amal
You think the world owes you
something
You think you’re innocent
and you don’t deserve to be
here
But guess what?
You’re here now
and you’re not going
anywhere