Few believed in the bodies of the disappeared.
Skin compared to the nights they’re killed in
Even the stars are dead… But we see their light
Mothers become (non) silent witnesses,
The streets wet w the red of them, and wailing
Unlike the sirens of emergency vehicles—
There is no urgency:
It’s not as if a Black isn’t inevitable.
Sometimes it’s the whitest voice in the room
that’s trusted. Like a light shining down.