If She Would

12/20/2016

If she would drop the mask,
and show her lines.

If she would sleep through one night, with all the screens unplugged.

If she would ask for directions when she’s lost,
instead of bombing the road.

If she would own her “colored” drinking fountains,
as much as she owned her game shows.

If she would explain to the poor, disillusioned, whites
that she does not know them, because she does not care.

If she would allow herself the pain,
she would see the holy ghost
on a crosstown bus
and realize she has spit on numberless manifestations of The Savior.

If she would allow herself the pain,
she would wheeze with Watts and Harlem and Ferguson
until she heaved up the blood from all that asphalt.

If she would hold my hand when I’m dying,
without charging me the pennies for my eyes.

America,
If she would allow herself the pain,
she would be bleak
and drained as salt flats,
and opened,
at last, 
to a bruised, and hobbling,
love.

Raya Yarbrough

Singer, Composer, writer of absurd stories about LA, chanteuse on Outlander, BSG, DaVinci's Demons, & I used to date Dick Grayson.