Suspending Disbelief While Brown, Part II

We use ketchup because they laughed. And then they used our salt. And then our salt flecked gold. And then our gold was put in their museum.

Their books get newer. Our books miss pages.

Their mothers pay our mothers who come home too tired to mother.

What the anger is like:

You write, it reifies. It clots. 
Our misery, it prints. 
We commiserate: we pain and seizure. 
They laugh. They spectate. They garland. They trophy. 


What the sadness is like:

Tender word after tender word succumbs before it saves you.

What the sadness is like:

You are a sculptor and you cannot move your arms. The marble stares the way desire waits.

Copyright © 2022 by Hossannah Asuncion. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 17, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.