Checkered

the silvery sliver of midnight blue skies, winks at me as it delivers its goodnight,

laying me down in lullabies of boughs breaking like limbs in doubt.

the blue is not blue but sings them just as true, clear as day and come what may

like Juneteenth gold, as even sold,

my people rose, following diamonds in the night, dug out of hope.

I live under checkered flags that wave like the country's checkered past,

the black and white of racing round circles, while tracing stolen ground.

before the racetracks with crowds up in arms, there was the Railroad,

traveled with torn feet, running from dogs and mobs sounding the alarm.

I come from the black and white of America captured in still photographs with big flash:

white sclera, beige palms, brown skin, black hair.

I am the black and white of America. I am the cache.