A protest in free verse for each individual torn down before the monument of racism.

A Cascade of Larks

Action divides with the anthem of blood lulled by song and politics through roots to bedrock binding this very stanza to the fate of a statue.

Invalid; I am spackled in iron, barnacled with slurs, and sunken with purpose toward the molten lore of justice and the sting of your fist.

The vowels of a rainfall taunt the silent I with no trace of voice when even letters don’t fall — broken like Pleiades — across the White House lawn, taken with the thirst of a swallow, when a man cannot breathe under the knee of statutes.

My thoughts rush in a cascade of larks where rapture is the cadence through the rustle of chains to strokes of quill un-inked that loom in marble beneath feather falls and diffuse in tumbles molting to flirt with ash burnt on wings flocked toward the march over privilege and regret.

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