Fertile Ash

Turning ghettos to gardens

From fire that burns down our black throats

From anger that ricochets off the brick 

From love that lights the souls of those marching with us

Soles to concrete till the plant beds beneath them

We ask

How many more?

We demand to know

How many more?

When I say their names I know I will remember them. The signs we raise etch them into cardboard, a marquee of a running list. I ask, how much longer must that list run before it catches me?

No Eden is this garden 

That lurches between 

Our love and 

Our rage

Both violent enough 

To make embers of carnations.