Poetry
In hiding, my mother tells me, “They posted pictures of
two beautiful red strawberries in a cage, & said,
‘We’re socially distancing them from the squirrels’,”
& she laughed. “Squirrels know no social distancing
from other people’s food.” Do we call that theft?
In hiding, I can still go outside. There is space, for me.
Hinged on the theft of the land from the people
we named these streets after, to be parcelled in
a wide-open chunk for me & my bloodfolk, bought
by the blooded wealth of generations of whiteness,
I am blessed, yes, privileged to borrow my Spring
in the midst of it all from the moss & the light &
the new-budding trees. The trodden dandelions
& violets are untroubled. The daffodils stop for no-one.
The squirrels know no social distancing.
The birds sing & sing without coughing or fear.
The Earth still turns unbidden towards the Sun.