When I learned
Derrick Bell wrote science fiction,
I cried in my car,
George Wallace screaming on Color TV
500 armed veterans and 9 black teenagers
probably still alive to vote in 2024
In the shadows of temporarily embarrassed immigrants,
were my ancestors bittering,
red ears in the Southern sun,
with oil-gray fingernails
cutting the palms of their fists
Somehow
they gave me soap to wash my hands
and sunscreen for my face
so I could dream of beings from planets
Where the dream is
aliveness
and not prices or colors
August 7, 2024
arden briar smith