I walked past a dead bird last night.
Plump and overweight with food. Young and defiant.
Legs spread towards heaven as if it tried to reach the afterlife in a dying breath.
Hail Mary, full of grace our Lord is with thee –
It is already dead. Your prayers, wishes and tears are no good to it anymore.
Remember its children instead; siblings; partner. Pray for the parents who will watch it be lowered into a shoebox and forgotten.
And why are you knelt on the floor every night, rivers falling from your eyes as you beg for change?
We are the Gods and Earths – look in the mirror and remember who you are.
I walked past a dead bird last week.
Black and melanchroic with the mark of Cain; hair straightened and spattered with
Acid rain. Eyes lidded in lethargic incredulity because it overstood its worth
In a world where it seemingly had none. In a world where it is silenced.
In a world where its mouth is akin to a voice of bitterness – an ugly mouth.
Not the mouth of God that created the heavens and earth,
Not lips that induce heaven on earth,
And pour milk, honey and gold onto your taste buds.
Rich, like a modest goddess. The meek shall inherit the earth.
Its melanistic robes are its crowning glory.
I walked past a dead bird last month – tainted with a belief system forced on it.
An imaginary ceiling so it could only fly so high.
Yahweh, because they once served the Jew, or
Allah, because they once served the Arab, or
Rasta, because Jamaica wanted to fit in, because black Jesus is cooler
Hail Black Jesus; Haile Selassie.
You critique the corpse – ‘she dead long before she dead.’
With a superiority similar to Cecil Rhodes who slaughtered several of our ancestors
Raped our land and enslaved us because we were the savages.
Who exactly are you saving?
C’mon, Jaz. It’s one bird. Who cares anyway?
Look at its angry, maggot-filled eyes that seldom crease in happiness;
Matted black wings, limp, without purpose;
That large, enviable, black tail feather that could catch the master’s eye from within the cage…
Its existence was too crude anyway.
That plump beak that would’ve gotten it into trouble someday;
That big gluttonous belly, lacking restraint. And scrawny dark legs, lacking exercise.
And let’s not forget its lack of charity. We matter too, but all it did was occasionally drop the deuces on us.
It’s one bird. And wasn’t its death imminent?
I walked past a dead bird last night, last week, last month.
Sprawled out on the floor, nameless and naked.
Voices that have tried to justify this for centuries simply remind me,
That while they may not love God,
They still fear Her.