My People

My people.

Let me tell you about

my people.

My people are stupid,

mouths filled with ashes

that, when opened, spill

out onto the waxed floors

of our mothers

and we spend eternity

on our knees trying to

clean it back up again –

please excuse my vomited

thoughts, that I’ve gone and

made a mess with what

you’ve given me.

Please regard the stain

at your feet as no more than a speck,

a splotch of humanity – sorry, sorry

for that red wine mark in this

bare white room; let me tell you:

my people are writers, teachers,

readers, free-thinkers, above all,

soldiers, and these scratches

on these hardwood floors are the

echoes of their marching –

this rhythm we turn to is the beat

of their black hearts; you don’t know this,

but I’ve stolen away the world from

your calculated fingers and placed it

in the dirtied, inspired

hands of my people.


13 thoughts on “My People

  1. This reminds me:

    Many years ago in the deep south I road to work with another member of my construction crew. I’m white. He was a very light-skinned man of African descent, lighter than me. He always talked about “my people” and “your people”.

    He missed the part that we’re all one.

    Thanks for this.

    1. I know, I know, I’m such a quote fiend, but you just reminded me of another one I particularly like: “People are people, regardless of skin. People are people, regardless of creed. People are people regardless of gender. People are people regardless of anything.
      People are my religion, because I believe in them. I have faith in my fellow man, and I only hope that he has faith in me.”

      Equality wasn’t on my mind when I wrote this, but I like what you’ve said. I love people. You are all my people (or at least, that’s what I like to tell myself)


Thoughts? I love those.

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