Good Friday

Beloved, don’t you know that

It has not stopped---

The people dying on crosses today?

Crosses constructed of paper money,

Young bodies made slick

And sold to the highest bidder

Countries away.

Crosses made out of misplaced fear,

The bang bang stop

Falling of her body

As she was tased to death

While in restraints.

Crosses made of power’s cocaine,

Leading those addicted to

Steal more water and land

To support their habit,

And still never getting enough.

Crosses made of “I don’t believe you”

And more shut doors

And more night terrors

Made real,

Abuse that doesn’t stop

To take a breath.

If we see only one cross today

We have missed the point

Of that one.

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by Laura Martin

The reality is that I too have

Authored your pain.

I laid a blank piece of paper down

When you needed me to respond.

I chose the shortcut.

I learned complicity,

Learned to move quietly in my privilege,

Learned to let the doors open for me

Before walked inside.

I inherited fear

And did not unlearn it.

In fight or flight, I flew.

I confess all this.

And I commit to hearing

The raw stories,

To letting your vulnerability

Chafe me.