(Our) Negroes

It is a pain I rarely think about
It is a pain I bury
Then I see their faces:
Medgar
Martin
Malcolm

I am reminded of the young lives taken
The loved ones wailing
Legends murdered

Then the pain returns
It’s sharp
Despaired
Lethargic

It goes, slowly, with the voice of the narrator,
It will return later wanting evermore to have known these great men

Written By: Flose Boursiquot

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