He was eight when it came for him,

the streets were shimmering,

and he was sucking on an orange pop.

Summer brings heat and play and wonder,

and meth and coke and whores and stink

school ain’t out by a long shot.

He was six when he learned what white folk call black folk,

seven when he learned about slaves,

and eight when he saw a loaded gun bring all manner of hell.

Brains splattered on the stove-top like beached jellyfish he seen on TV.

Teeth sink into greasy fried chicken,

Eyes fixed on cracked asphalt.

White folk take him away from the scene,

away from mamma.

When it came for him,

he was watching the older boys play ball,

dribbling alone on the side of the court.

Pop, pop from the projects.

Can’t be his place.

Can’t be.

Black bird flew up,

Big as a cat,

Caw, caw.

Birdie says,

That big black boy that bounces at the club,

Can’t handle his shit.

Says that black boy looking for a good stash.

But he turns,

And it ain’t the bird talking,

It’s the boys playing ball,

And they looking at him.

Stopped now, lookin’.

They mouths move,

Making sounds,

And he knows.

He lives with daddy now,

but daddy only speaks to needles

slapping his wrist like it done wrong.

Mamma is gone,

mamma is gone,

mamma is gone.