When I die Bury me beneath on a bed of breaths So that as my body decays I turn into whispers instead of flowers I’ve learned that whispers last a little longer
By Elizabeth McClure3 years ago in Poets
You ever seen ebony bodies line ivory streets like railroad tracks? The bones crinkle under the weight of their blue boots
“On being Black, Queer, and a poet” When I first met my poet She was wielding weapons with her words Crept in shadows