Yesterday, I mopped
the blood of a young
Black boy, whose head
was cracked open in
a basketball collision.
The mop was a brush,
a stroke of crimson
on the canvass of
the gym floor.
The strokes forming
letters of blood—
how fragile our bodies—
one impact & rivers spill
from our flesh.
I leave the floor spotless—
no trace of the young boy’s blood.
I imagine the mothers of slain
Black, Brown, Native
children
& how they clean the blood
from their neighborhood sidewalks.
I tremble.
How lucky I am
to have only cleaned
the blood & see the boy
return today—
bright, smiling
& alive.
How lucky I am
to clean up the blood
& only the blood.
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