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—

The only book
I gave Clyde was
The Rose That Grew from Concrete

I was definitely
trying to tell him something
because Tupac was a poet

So this bus this bus
is the streets the courts the park
on wheels engine roaring
A ship headed for the new world
and we’re all in here in shackles

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

Seeing my mother makes me feel like
there’s a hole in my heart
Seeing my lawyer makes me feel like
he put that hole there

Poetry? Oh, that’s a perk, Mr. Shahid
A treat for those who do
What they’re supposed to

I’m over here spitting rhymes behind bars
They thought the box would get me
like Kunta in captivity
but I’m still free

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

Here, we’re not even paint
We’re a box of cheap markers

that don’t even blend well
The shit that forces you

to stay in the lines or else
the colors will bleed

The colors will bleed

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

That’s what Uncle Rashon always says
That school teaches you what to think
not how to think and nobody raises
their hands except to give
the right answer
The teacher only
asks questions to hear
the right answer

and Kadon was right
I needed a crew to sit next to me
to be my four corners so that I’m not cornered

We’re the butterflies, I said
and the things we do are like wings

We do shit every day, he said
How come shit ain’t changed

Nah, I said
Everything is changing something
every day, even this conversation

You been quiet, he says
Staying out of trouble
It’s almost like
you ain’t supposed to be here

I’m not, I mumble

It’s not up to me, he says
But for now, I see you, Shahid
Keep your head up and head down
at the same time, feel me?

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

They said my mural
was against the facility’s guidelines

No gang colors, signs, or symbols