for the black worshipers
who have yet to find some translation of
hosanna
or ashe or amen
to be worthy of God’s grace
in the eyes of God’s graceless

to the mortally wounded coughing up
their last ruby dripping hallelujah
into pavement or grass,
God willing,
let the ants talk to the sparrows
let the sparrows tell God they tried

to those dying and needing mercy the most
pleading out any prayer that lips can’t form
into the face of an officer
who can’t risk first aid
because a man who can’t breathe
to pray for his mother,
or whisper the name of the woman he loves,
or forgive his transgressor
while they are still transgressing,
that man can still attack,
right?

I pray for a new Zion
a land that does not see hubris
in our personal divinity
that does not shame you
for the divine that your great great grandmother
tucked away in her left cheek
and each time her children kissed her there
she called them miracle

you are miracle
your new home will be by the river
where the waters wash away
everything that ever wished you ill
and bring only
milk and honey
grace and mercy
your father’s strength
your mother’s compassion

your legs will never tire from running
not from necessity
but from joy

and your god,
my god
our gods
will have your face
will be shaped in our image
will welcome you home

Charles McCaskill is a poet. He hosts a semi-monthly open mic poetry event in Pensacola, FL.