We Speak

Written by Angela Su from New Orleans, Louisiana, USA

We speak of unity,

but our streets

surge with scattered screams

and footsteps that rattle

office tower glass.

Clammy hands clutch

paper signs– creased, weathered, sweat-damp.

Cracked lips form words

lost somewhere in the noise.

Steady feet pound, in unison,

against earth’s tired bones.

The air, aroma thick with cardboard, tear gas, and smoke–

but does anyone call this division?

We speak of justice,

but the scales tilt slowly

behind courthouse doors.

Gavels fall like faint raindrops

on roofs of vacant houses.

Names entombed in folders,

sealed, shelved,

remembered only by dust.

And still, marble columns remain

cold, firm, untouched,

deaf to murmurs below.

We speak of protection,

but children crouch beneath desks,

hands over heads,

eyes fixating on tiles, holding breath

through pulsing sirens.

Classroom doors sealed like fortified safes;

alarms and bullets blaring

louder than the roar of the cafeteria crowd.

Instructions meant to save

also sketch out paths to destroy.

Fingers tap, bodies stiffen,

hearts pound.

The safe place for learning

now teaches them to hide.

We speak of peace,

but after campaign rallies

streets erupt– not in applause

but in fists, fury, and frenzied screams.

Glass bursts from gunfire,

shards skipping across pavement

like stones.

And now,

where the pledge was chanted proud,

and the flag waved high,

caution tape drapes like heavy chains.

We speak.

But do the things we say mean anything?

Even our words are scarred,

drowned before they ever reach the surface.