Maisha Z.

Johnson This Isn¶t a Poem About Justice This isn¶t a poem about justice I¶m not supposed to write about wild and out there things that you can¶t get your hands on that might not really exist. But if you promise not to call me crazy I¶ll tell you in a whisper that I felt justice. it was soaking the earth in warm rain falling and lightning bolts striking the Detroit River lighting up the sky like the eyes of a hopeful child. Promise not to laugh when I say I looked into the soul of a stranger Our eyes met, our energies passed between us like the shared tremble of an earthquake. No need to ask did you feel that? I can¶t call him a stranger anymore. Promise you won¶t turn me in when I speak of bonds formed on darkened dance floors between banners calling for revolutions what I did might have violated some part of the Patriot Act and if they lock me up and torture me and ask what I know about terror I¶ll say her lips tasted like cinnamon. We spit justice into microphones spilled it from paint cans onto canvases wore it on t-shirts and fried it into foods, so it burned our tongues and slipped from our lips when we spoke. I say justice is alive as the red rose of so many poems but its scent thickens the air like the heat of the sun and its thorns are inescapable.

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