grow up/be a man (toughen up)
By Imani Lillian Ross
they ask us why we grow
up so fast; we ask them why we didn’t
grow up fast enough for them. we’re
in a constant state of REM, sleeping
like beauty doesn’t matter when it matters. ask the ebony
queens who bleed for crowns they will never have. or
maybe just ask their mothers.
how about the black boys in Bugattis whose Rays
deflect? they checked the raise when parties
raised the check to compensate
for other’s consternation.
and the kids who grew up in bathrooms
next to toilets flushing the blush
from mommy’s cheeks—flushing the puke from endless
weeks of drinking or tweaking.
but those of us with white picket fences
and loving families have no excuses? try
the running bruises of abuse that flee
when hands come again. (that’s how they love.)
or the white picking fences that leave
black bodies out. or the apology technology forgot to give
when it turned us into flunkies and zombies
and bullies and passing
mentions. or maybe just blame the guns
and violence that bury us in silence
every day that ends in “y.”
and they wonder why we grew up so fast?
and too quickly we find old age. this
is the ice age where vice grows on trees
instead of money. “you catch more flies
with honey. honey, rage, rage against the dying—“
but i’m too busy dyeing my hair blue.
By Imani Lillian Ross
they ask us why we grow
up so fast; we ask them why we didn’t
grow up fast enough for them. we’re
in a constant state of REM, sleeping
like beauty doesn’t matter when it matters. ask the ebony
queens who bleed for crowns they will never have. or
maybe just ask their mothers.
how about the black boys in Bugattis whose Rays
deflect? they checked the raise when parties
raised the check to compensate
for other’s consternation.
and the kids who grew up in bathrooms
next to toilets flushing the blush
from mommy’s cheeks—flushing the puke from endless
weeks of drinking or tweaking.
but those of us with white picket fences
and loving families have no excuses? try
the running bruises of abuse that flee
when hands come again. (that’s how they love.)
or the white picking fences that leave
black bodies out. or the apology technology forgot to give
when it turned us into flunkies and zombies
and bullies and passing
mentions. or maybe just blame the guns
and violence that bury us in silence
every day that ends in “y.”
and they wonder why we grew up so fast?
and too quickly we find old age. this
is the ice age where vice grows on trees
instead of money. “you catch more flies
with honey. honey, rage, rage against the dying—“
but i’m too busy dyeing my hair blue.
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