Madea

Margaret
A woman who was a slave
Light skin, pretty
Gave birth to her white children
Ran
The house where she lived was surrounded
So she slit the throat of her daughter
And before they could stop her she cut her son
Baby’s in purgatory
She died regretting that she did not cut deep enough
Slaves die too slow
Corrine
She gave her son a gun
A toy
But the political correctness of the times
Demanded that little boys
Especially little black boys
Must never play with guns
Fight them, fight them
And don’t be scared
Folks call her mentally unstable
Crazy
Understand that the fearless frighten those afraid of transition
This is not a poem
This is a call to arms
A drum of war
Dead babies become spirits who fly
A toddler’s wounds become war paint
Corinne
Decided that she would not be kidnapped
By officers of unjust laws
That she would live in a state of sovereignty
She had the audacity to ask
By whose authority
In the moment of her death
When the bullet passed through her body into her son
She became seeds replanted
We turn on the axis of women who know the consequences of repudiation and
violence
To give birth to revolution is labor
It hurts, and bleeds
This is not a poem, it is a warning
Laws are transcribed on paper, parchment
Easily edited
Freedom is flush
It is alive
Or it is dead
Watch the woman