The black skin on my hands means everything
In the constant pursuit of freedom
Cracks on my knuckles persist
As I spill blood
On the foot of Lady Justice
In the eye of our system —
And to the men above me —
I am identified by
A mere color
And by the status of my uterus:
“Functional or not”
Can I reproduce more Blacks — like me?
To them I am many things
But of those, I choose to be none.
I dream of a day I lay
On the soft banks of North Africa
Where my people were stolen from
And watch the sunset
In a place where I am seen
For what I am:
Divine feminine, Human, Eternal
I will find a place where I can heal
My brothers, sisters, and siblings
Of traumas
Inflicted by the state
Not of our choosing
Everlasting freedom is not found
In the dead eyes of formal men
But in the colored skin that lays upon by bone
The soft glow of my ancestor’s oil lamps
And the whispered hymns of my great-grandmother
Antonia Taylor is pursuing a master’s degree in public administration at the University of Texas at San Antonio. She is the graduate winner of the League of Women Voters of San Antonio’s Our Future: Our Vote Youth Initiative contest.
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