Asleep, you dreamt of lives which you had saved.
In bed, 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 smile —
like a phoenix or,
a warrior girl.
For those sparks that lit your name aflame, and for
how many million tongues that tasted it?
So are we silent or do we speak up; and is it
our rose in the Garden of Eden—
and in our myriad violence and 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 —
For you, on that thin blue line, you,
the Goddess Breonna, sail down on it.
(And know, the line was the very thing to
wrap around their throat and strangle with).
For if our lines are thin and scored,
then how much thinner was yours?