from Anarcha Speaks: A History in Poems

Anarcha Will Speak and It Will Be So

massa come in like he know i caint cry
new tears

he take what he want
he keep a hot hand

every new hatred
cinch my throat closed.

he take me

give me a name made outta iron
he say it til i ain’t myself

i, sheet rock.
i, a salted wound.

i the upset of everything,
unholy,
                 this.