and then I’m reminded of my place here

The yellow orange body part of trees crunch underfoot as I cross 14th, 

The murmur and running of engines sound like the thrum of people passing by. Walking

through our Memorial to Enslaved Laborers, a woman shouts, “Go on kids, go play!” I watch

her lifeblood grip and trample onto the sculpted stone structure, 

And I’m reminded of when grazing these grounds feels forbidden—like I was a thing that couldn’t

walk along the brazen and battered brick that holds within the history of my ancestors. I step on these

blades of grass and I wonder how many unmarked graves 

I have wandered over on the way here, 

But her only worry is making sure her kids have time to unabashedly enjoy themselves. Yet, I don’t

have time to see her reason to travel with her children to this museum of water and stone that only

holds the passion of grief suspended in a moment. 

The passion of perseverance etched and carved into a slab of stone—every name, one role. 

I must remember, weeds grow in between the bricks—they have learned to be more selfish

with the sunlight knowing this ground is all theirs. 

Everything here is for the taking, and I will bask in the sun knowing 

that these grounds are all mine. 

There is space for my body to occupy—shouting from the dreams 

of my ancestors who know me better than I know myself.