its not the hoodies

or the skittles

BART rides

not the wallet he pulled

out or the comb the cell

phone not the toy gun

or the raised empty hands perhaps

its the kiss of melanin the brown

black velvet-ness of the skin the

smell of  continuance in the face

of obliterating forces its the tilt of

the head the light in the eyes the warmth

of their breath the blood running like

rivers in veins to hearts that still beat

the soul inside humming in divine keys

its the life it self beating against

everything that should have extinguished

its light its the brightness of the light

the going on-ness

skipping easy on existence like

stones over water in the presence

of history now uncertain tomorrows

still they are

like bright promises that could come true

like guns that could fire

like truth that could be told

like lions sleeping that might wake

hungry for justice

seeking reciprocity answering madness

with sober measures

that leave scars on what you thought

you knew its because they are feet

striking the earth air in lungs hearts beating

because they are sons of the mother

sons of the father

batons passing torches that don’t dim

the answer the threat the undoing

walking refusing to die

not accepting DOA on certificates of birth

living in the middle of all that

would undo them

with the expectation of growing into tomorrow

the arrogance of eye contact

the upright spine

the expectation of humanity

in them that makes them

visible

threats

dangerous

impossible

explosive

targets for extermination