Her larynx is raw from chanting.
Every diphthong and syllable aflame.
Each vowel broken. She cannot sing,
We Shall Overcome. That was
her grandmother’s song. And she
is not her grandmother.
So forgive her for wanting
the police precinct destroyed.
Forgive her for cheering
as patrol cars scream between
flames. Forgive her for looting
the Smoke Shop in the alley
on James Street. Forgive her
for listening to Floyd cry,
“Momma” four hundred times
on her cell phone as she fills
a bong with kerosene.
Forgive her as she sticks a rag
in its petite mouth and turns
the soft pink cloth into wick.
Forgive her. Forgive her
as she leans back,
steps forward, shifts
her full body weight,
twists her torso,
drives her elbow forward,
and releases the bong—
a torched bird
with variegated wings.