She was
asleep, not your
wanted man, but you killed
her anyway, as if you weren’t
to blame.
                        

            for Chaunce, and Ahmaud Arbery
 
I keep thinking about chance —
the anglicized name of a Rwandan
I met last summer, for one, who said
he did not want to come to America
for fear of being shot. I said,
it’s not like that everywhere. Later, 
when I said I didn’t want to walk
the streets of Kigali at night —
as a woman — he threw my words
back at me: it’s not like that here. 
 
Then I heard the news —
the painfully not-new news —
that a black man, about the same
age as Chance, was shot while running
for recreation in a Georgia neighborhood.
What chance did he have to survive
being black, in a small, white world?
 
I pray we both survive our statistics,
have the strength to outrun our fears —
sometimes, there are no second chances.
                        

As I watch the jet-black dregs
of yesterday’s coffee wash down
the drain, I am thinking about racism, 
and how I will never be able to satisfy 
those who demand justice, so it’s good
I washed any plans of being a lawyer
down the drain a long time ago.
 
As I wait for a new day to dawn
black with fresh coffee, I am still
thinking about racism, knowing 
thoughts will never bring justice
to the good people killed because
of color, laws be damned, along
with the consciences condemned
to hell of one kind or another.
 
I pour the coffee, black, into my mug.
I pour the milk, white, right in with it.
I stir, drink — still am not satisfied.
I add sugar — white, then brown — and…
 
It’s still not right. I don’t know
how to make it right.