when human lives are reduced to hashtags,
every mother’s heart should weep
every mother’s womb should convulse.
but some mother’s son
was on the other side of the hashtag
pulling the trigger
cursing the dying man’s last breath
pounding his skull into the pavement
as life left his body.
and this is the problem for a mother’s soul:
not which side are you on,
for mother’s are always on the side of life
complicated and messy, yes, but
but what is life when you have to ask
where you will find your son;
was your son the hashtag
or the one creating the hashtag,
the one with position and power
or the one crying out.
because we raise our sons,
we all do,
to rise to their greatest heights;
but what then do we do
when their heights are positions of power
in the machinery of the #newjimcrow?
do we love them less?
or do we shield our heart from the hashtags?
and in that moment
that Sophie’s choice
that impossible place
white supremacy triumphs
and our souls begin their descent