Old Man Sun God by Jessica Mookherjee

I am not a silent poet

At noon they burn, in their light blue tracksuits and slogans,

The law is the law and the law is light; They chant

near where the kid was shot dead, left on the road for hours –

while his mother screamed.

They tell the cameras, Someone’s got to stand for the police

buy wristbands – outside the police-station,  All Lives Matter –

a million dollars raised for the cop’s retirement fund.

they huddle from darkness; as the black man

in his white t-shirt, that says peace and hope, walks towards them.

Oh here goes, one mutters, reaching for his Beemiller handgun.

At noon, ancestor father-sun, creator of the Osage-Sioux,

clicks his teeth and sits outside his burger-joint; smoking pipe,

he laughs, remembers how there was nothing he could do

to help his tribe. Those forced relocations to Kansas

dustbowls in the eighteen hundreds. He lost his power.

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