There are fists making tom toms of eardrums,
boots kicking downbeats in skulls,
in every state of tinted circles.
We the trapped traps bear marks
of all their sticks and mallets,
all their Billyclub Cobhams.
This is the only freedom we can firework:
Freedom to have our snare skin
struck until it cracks
as white hands
play “God Bless America”
from the bandstand on our backs.
by Truth Thomas, Courtesy of Radius Literary Review