dust

I do not want
To rise like dust.
I do not want to wait
For you to write the narrative.
I do not want you to control the rhythm
Of my hips, the tenor of my voice, the texture
Of my hair. I do not want to appeal to the moderate
The voice of reason that, with agonizing patronizing hands
Beats me down to nothing. No. I want to rise like fire, I want to burn
Every single piece of you, if it stands between me and that which I am promised.
I will snatch from you the words, and I will write them in blood, if I must.
I will wrench your prayers from your lukewarm lips, and my hips and
My voice and my hair will overwhelm you and you will be afraid.
I will challenge you, White moderate, to be with us or to be
Against us, but no longer Will you speak for us, or shush
Us and Hold our tongues. And I will bring you to heel
And I will not pray to your God for peace or mercy
For I intend to show neither. You will not stand
Between me and my freedom. You will move
And you will be silent, or I will tear down
That which I built, and I will build
My house In your ashes.

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