1968

The year I was born,
the world cracked open

to reveal a new language.

New words that cut my
teeth in ridges.

Words handcuffed my wrists,
bound my hands,
dropped me to my knees.

These words were hatched
in January,

cut their eye teeth in Memphis
In April—

tattooed themselves onto my tongue
when I dropped
from the womb of December.

These words stacked
side by side,
built a prison wall.

My mother packed them
in my lunchbox.
I devoured them
between two slices
of Wonder Bread.

Do not tell me
racism does not exist.

It told me bedtime stories,
collapsed before me
like Humpty Dumpty.

Sometimes I wake
dreaming of the child I was
still tumbling.