the next revolution

by Reverie Koniecki, on justice

at his inauguration, Erik B.

descends from the stage bearing all ten

of Biggie’s commandments

the crowd goes wild,

arms stretched out as if he is Selassie

they want a piece of him.

they want soccer fields and saturdays off.

they want smoked brisket with burnt ends.

somebody's mama starts

to wobble-wobble and everybody joins in,

even Kendrick and Drake.

you’ve seen this before.

potato salad, sundresses, a promise

you smile and pose for photos,

looking as if you’ve just caught

a salmon, dull incisors revealing

the wars you’ve weathered,

the websites you’ve built,

the IG posts you’ve written.

the metrics are rigged when

the law is a canon of someone else's forefathers,

a dominant synapse filing down fingerprints

with time and fact.

as if erasure is a victimless crime.

a boulder is stripped to pebbles,

and we say it has gotten what it deserves;

a river deltas into sediment,

and we grant it personhood.

the body is a sport with a limited narrator.

the  crackle of the microphone prompts

hands to temples.

anoint thy spirit with tea tree oil and edge wax,

the new president instructs.

the people feel seen.

applause roars like raw

chicken in a too hot skillet.

this is a gospel for the heavy.

the weight of your diaphragm: forget.//

our mother tongue is said to be:    extinct,

yet here are her phonemes rattling:

illuminating the landscape ahead.