The government thought
we were terrorists
because we looked at a
house. White people
would never live in
such a house, they thought.
My parents were held
for hours, questions,
questions, questions.
While my brother and
sister and I cried
in the car,
answerless,
soldiers practiced
shooting sacks
of corn meal. They
looked in at us
from outside of the
car, gleaming black
skin pearled in sweat.
The weight, they said
through foggy windows,
the weight was
accurate to judge.
They must have thought
us too young.
The want was after
they let us go, no explanation given.
My parents read us the
Passover story
and I waited in bed
for some dark stranger
to brush my hair back
and say, Yes
I will take you into
the dark
made of mothers’
wailings,
I will show you what
it means
to shed blood.
