to the teenage black employee who followed me, a black man, in a grocery store
Imagine there’s no light
between us and all
we know is the darkness
that binds us while I decide
if I desire 2 percent or whole
milk. You trail 12 feet behind
as I push a cart of goods
like a baby. You’re a kid,
it seems, a boy of no more
than 19 buried in your cell,
looking once or twice
my way. Your white gray
manager nods oppression.
You don’t think to puncture
commands from high. You spin
time into money. Your work
reduced to studying people
like you and me to see
whether I’m worth more
than the overflowing
cart I struggle to steer.
I have known this earth
for 37 years. I know a few
many things, like everything
is connected, like slavery
to now. You follow me
like an overseer with spoiled
power. I pause at the Aunt
Jemima syrups which are bitter
with stereotypes. You follow
me to the self-checkout
counter, pretending to still
be lost in your cell. I scan
each item and pay for it
all with the sum I earn
as an in-home family
therapist empowering
kids your age to climb
above systems. I show
teeth and tell you to have
a warm week. You say you
were only doing your job. Yes,
I don’t say. The job of keeping
racism alive. The light butcher
shakes his caged dreads. Like us,
tanked lobsters battle each other
with taped claws.