By Hiwot Adilow

Whenever a blk person is senselessly murdered

(and I shiver through the bones at how

smooth it comes, like wind across my cheek,

the bitter truth that waves whenever)

I find myself, my Other name, biting at

The Atlantic—I will simply go Back Home.

Ethiopia waits for my lips, spitting

My father’s name so wrong.

There is blood in the city I was born in

And it trails from one coast to another.

I say beYesussm and dream of flight

Wondering where the dying will go.

Can I pull them onto the boat I inherited?

Who is to say I will not die running?

Who is to say that the bullet cares

Anything for where I am “from?”

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