Later that night, when the low-riding hearse
            and your murdered great-grandfather are gone;
           
and his wife dusts her face until it is velvet,
            then reclines in bed to entertain the mourners;
 
when your mother pushes you toward her like a convenient
            sacrifice (because she wants the woman
 
even her own children call Mama to love her);
            when you stumble, one hand reaching for your mother’s,
 
whom you want to love you too, the other
            smearing gummy fingerprints onto the bedpost
 
where she, who three generations call Mama, sits up
            suddenly like those jacks-in-the-box you are never
 
quite ready for; when you steel yourself,
            puffing large your small barrel of belly,
 
your concave chest dotted with the pink rosettes
            of your favorite t-shirt, into which
 
she buries her bone-dry face and wails
            loud enough so your aunts can hear
 
over the clink of your beaded braids, I didn’t
            mean to do it! This is your initiation to justice. 

When, years later, disbelieving, you search
            for a mug shot, a court case; when you finally weigh 

for the first time, their body politic—two bodies, really—
            having fallen in the middle of nowhere, having made no sound; 

when you scroll through Facebook, now crawling
            with smoldering cop cars, streets spattered
 
with storefront glass: Ferguson; when half-asleep,
            your lover murmurs the stepfather’s words,
 
burn this bitch down, think of all
            the systems that hew the rock, then hide
 
the hands. Remember how grief
            encircles a bed.

—Destiny O. Birdsong

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A note from the artist: This artwork is part of “Who Cares?”, a traveling exhibition of painted portraits that honors caregivers and their gracious generosity. To bring the conversation to your community, contact PDubroof (at) gmail (dot) com.