2014 was the summer of bootstrapping.
It was the summer of reverse racism.
It was the summer of I don’t see color.
It was the summer of when a cop tells you to do something…
It was the summer of what about black-on-black crime?
It was the summer President Obama
had "no sympathy".

2014 was the last summer ofMichael Brown,
who was unarmed,
and in consecutive moments, Hulk Hogan & it—
a demon rushing.
It was the last summer of Eric Garner,
who was unarmed, and said, “Every time you see me,
you wanna mess with me.
It stops today,”
and was right.
It was the last year of Rumain Brisbon,
who was unarmed.
It was the last summer of John Crawford,
who held a pellet gun.
It was the last year of Tamir Rice,
who held a toy gun.
It was the last summer of Kajieme Powell,
who held a knife.
It was the last summer of Ezell Ford,
who held a knife.
It was the last summer of Laquan McDonald,
who held a knife.
It was the last summer of Darrien Hunt,
who held a blunt sword.
It was the last year of Akai Gurley,
who held a door handle.
It was the last summer of Cameron Tillman.
It was the last summer of Roshad McIntosh.
In the country where at least one more black boy
is buried since you began reading this poem.

2014 was fifty years after the Freedom Summer.
It was sixty-three years after the killing of Sam Shepard.
It was fifteen years after the killing of Amadou Diallo.
It was eight years after the killing of Sean Bell.
It was five years after the killing of Oscar Grant.
It was three years after the killing of Kenneth Chamberlain Sr.
It was two years after the killing of Kendrec McDade.
It was one year after the killing of Jonathan Ferrell.
It was one year after the killing of Kimani Gray.
It was one year after George Zimmerman
was acquitted for killing Trayvon Martin
—when my friend asked Facebook & the world, “Can we all see now?”

And no, Justin,
I don’t think we can. Even with boots
in the streets and hands in the air. Even with
cell phones recording. Even if
every cop wore a body camera. Because even though
this poem tallies twenty-one dead, we still say
stop pulling the race card. Even if these margins
listed every unarmed black man
shot by police, with the title,
“Elegy for the American Dream”,
we’d still say don’t forget about Irish indentured servitude.
We’d still call black protests riots, brand victims
thugs, criminals, looters, dismiss kids
guilty of #crimingWhileWhite.

2014 ended with no charges
for Darren Wilson or Daniel Pantaleo.
No certainty of the annual count of Eric Garners &
Michael Browns
whose last whispers are the ghosts
they breathe through blood into urban concrete—“I can’t breathe.”
“I don’t have a gun.
Stop shooting.”
—the ghosts we envoke with howls
& hashtags, pleas & poems.
No song, still, for mothers who search
smoldering cities for sons—
no song but the litany of names
they chant, praying it pulls
ghosts from their graves
of stone, & tar, & smoke, & blood.