NYU Black Renaissance Noire NYU Black Renaissance Noire Volume 16.2: Fall 2016 - Page 64
The 87 Bus transports us back to the ships . We did not take them seriously . The ship and the one in front of it carries gurgled screams of a deal . It was business then . It is business now . Our eyes do not look frightened . We know where we are going this time .
Never forget . Words are not acrid . They do not swell up . Smell . Congeal . Have bloody pus sores . You believed they leave no trace of death . You forgot the heat , the salt , the air , the rattle of chains , the sight of no land . Your bloody flesh . The murmurs of the snarling he-hounds , their bloody paw prints walking through pools of our blood with snotty strands of cartilage hanging from their teeth , pouring water on us like fish to keep us alive . I remember the Black man dragged to death on a Texas highway , pregnant Black women assembled , their abdomens cut open their blood dripping like Jackson Pollock paintings on the pupils of willing white girls who lied on black boys about the caked coitus between their knees .
You became acclimatized to the screams around here , the still life of your death ’ s watercolor remains .