In 1492, dawn came.

There was no light

before us.

No they.

Before us eyes were closed: darkness,

we saw,

could be controlled, must

be brought

to light. We said:

One voice, that is all

there is:

mine,

not millions—the world

anyone but everyone’s

to take.

Impoverished ourselves

in scarcity,

preached this: never

enough.

We made all blood

except ours abstract;

all backs

except ours bendable;

all names

except ours unutterable;

all songs

except ours discordant;

our alternative antiquity

our banner. We culled

the contemporary, shouted

down the amassing

dissent.

We are Baldwin’s

jeering history,

screaming behind Ruby Bridges,

her books cradled as shield;

we pretend

we have always been the shield.

We pretend, even as we groan

pressing our knees into

their necks:

we protest,

we have never been

the harm.

This mythology that owns us.

Even now

in other’s freedom, it is our best

we are doing, the mythology

never enough

for all of us to be whole.