I started a poem — it is not finished yet, but I suspect it will show up in America’s Racial Karma, the book I’ve been writing on the subject. So I’ll give you where I am so far:
Innocent suffering still flowing.
Perpetrators showered with fame and silent applause.
Slave catchers still live.
It is why we run.
To say, “I didn’t do it” in the whispers of your mind is an indication of your culpability.
To say that someone, it was not me, when in fact it was you
animating every move with your quiet permission.
Co-mission is the same as omission.
There is no hiding place down here.
