The heart of roses, pine, sweetgrass, living breathing guiding my chest, grows and blooms and is crushed, crushed in the palms of my silent friends. Silent thru the ongoing pandemic and every blow to my/our body, silent thru this genocide, this incomprehensible unjustifiable criminal trauma. I've not figured out how to not be enraged by their silence.

My anger is rooted & sourced, drinks the cool clear water of my deep loving heart. My palms clasped in prayer every night as I cry myself to fitful sleep, tossing, turning, wondering who will surprise me. And I'm never surprised, except by the strangers, new comrades online. I'm not saying a few tried & true blue friends don't exist, ones aligned with liberation, abolition, no matter how hard it gets. My beloveds. Thank God for that. But they don't surprise me. I yearn for enchantment, to be surprised. Deep in my bones, none of this does.

My heart is crushed, friends. The silence of so many is so loud. I'm calling back, back through time, to my ancestors whose bodies lived this harder than mine, ear to ground, mouth to sky. Onward