by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son
below the hasty gridlock of contradictions
and among minced words on tall podiums,
a man preaches about compassion,
his eyes limpid.
an annishinabe woman once told me about relationships:
her people, skidding across moments, carried by wisdom,
the blood of her people seeping through these moments,
droplets ingrained with the soil.
but does the soil judge us as a merciless god?
my eyes follow a parched river basin.
the sun retreats to greet those who have been forgotten.
resting on the horizon, the flow of the river can still be felt.
bloods join, racing through the veins of sleepy sandstone cliffs.
their faces emerge in the crisp warmth of sunset, eyes limpid.
compassion and inequality, conflated, are left to fend on barren streets.
the woman taught me that no matter our origins,
drops of our blood seek out clemency.
soils take root.
the earth does not judge,
but among our minced words progress paves over the basins,
and our blood is sealed away.