the idea of ida.

"I will not begin at this late day by doing what my soul abhors; sugaring men, weak deceitful creatures, with flattery to retain them as escorts or to gratify a revenge."
-Ida B Wells

limbs of trees dance
barren fruit lean, veins bulging like pulp
bitter and hanging
until dropped
the limbs
of trees
dance-
swaying in stale air
of a place
once called home

is where the heart is but there is no heart
here,
how strange their movements
how selfish
the way we use
that which allows us to breathe
we come up
short
of breath
no one cradles air
too blinded to believe
in things intangible

where do you place dreams held hostage?
imagination and aspirations
in an opaque bubble
floating in a black sky
popped by someones pointer
finger
hands
move
with broken compasses as palms
no direction
just, piles of bricks put together
hollow holes for windows
black faces fill them
they look out
they look in
they wonder about tomorrow
and cry to the clouds
scream to a sorrowful sun
it storms-
children on all fours
searching for rainbows

a decaying gift for Ida
a bleeding bow
atop a pile of ashes
deserves no thank
you
deserve
no thank you.