Breonna’s Revenge

Asleep, you dreamt of lives that you had saved.

In bed, and had you locked the door, and, had the cat been fed?

And the nighttime fell on us and we slept,
safe, we wept, but knew it would be
A White Christmas.

And you, who was shot clean through, as well as
the man who protected you!

In bed, yet in the mourning still, you rose —

And, cloaked in every slight,
and Southern word from old

In the morning, you,

the EMT with,
that smile —

unfurl, uncurl,
like a phoenix or,
a warrior girl.

For that spark that lit your name aflame and
how many million tongues to taste?

So are we silent or do we speak up; and is it
our rose in the Garden of Eden —

in our myriad violence, not innocence —

But, relax your shoulders,
let go that cringe, and also —

I am sorry for it.

And for the badges who
clutched their bags — marching in time to
a thought and fear: it did not
belong to our time,

but it’s still here…

And I’m sorry, dear —

Now you, on that thin blue line, you,
Goddess Breonna sail down—
and perhaps that line is the very thing with
which to strangle these clowns.

For if our lines were thin and scored,
then how much thinner was yours?