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Shoulders

I’m thinking about black women’s shoulders.

And how many institutions and organizations use them as resting places.

How many bodies would crumble if you left?

How many spaces would exist no more?

How many people, would wither away without your influence?

I keep thinking about the black woman’s posture.

How many of us stand straight up?

How many our backs are hunched over?

Are the organizations we carry forcing us to bend over?

To fixate on the ground as we walk forward?

Do we even know what rest feels like?

Without guilt, without anguish, without a riot?

My mind won’t let go of the black woman’s shoulders.

The weight of a white mans business on them.

The weight of a black mans business on them.

The light that blinds these men (and women) into thinking they can do it alone.

When really, they probably wouldn’t do it at all.

And I’m thinking about these black women.

How we become infected with Stockholm syndrome.

The codependence of these organizations.

The familiarity of our bodies being used by someone other than ourselves.

God forbid.

The people will riot

and earth will crumble,

in the event that we decide to stand straight up.

If we were to only carry our own burdens instead of everyone else’s.

When we are no longer your mat

Ladder

Bridge

Boat

Or car

God forbid we stand straight up.

And stand straight up we shall.

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