THE MICROSCOPESHeavy and expensive, hard and blackWith bits of chrome for points of pride, they lookedLike baby cannons, the real children of war, and I Hated them for that, for what our teacher saidThey could do, and then I hated themFor what they did when we gave upOn stealing looks at each other's bodiesTo press a left or right eye into the barrel and seeOur actual selves taken down to a cellThen blown back up again, every atomic thingAbout a piece of my coiled hair on one slideJust as unimportant as anyone else'sGrowing in that scienceClass where I learned what little differenceGod saw if God saw me. It was the start of one fear,A puny one not much worth mentioning,Narrow like a pencil tucked behind the ear,But, by certain grace, lost when I reached for itTo stab someone I secretly loved.A bigger boy who'd advanceThrough those tight, locker-lined corridors shoving someWithout sayingExcuse me, more an insult than a battle. No large loss.Not at all. Nothing necessary to studyOr recall. No fighting in the hallOn the way to an American history examI almost passed. Redcoats.Red blood cells. Red-brickedEducation I rode the bus to get. I can't rememberThe exact date orGrade, but I know when I began ignoring slight alarmsThat move others to charge or retreat. I'm a kindOf camouflage. I never let on when I'm scaredOf conflicts so old they seem to amountTo nothing--dust particles left behind really--Like the viral geography of an expanding countryOr like the most recent name of an occupied territoryI imagine you imagine when you seeA white woman walking with a speck like me. RIDDLE We do not recognize the bodyOf Emmett Till. We do not knowThe boy's name nor the soundOf his mother wailing. We haveNever heard a mother wailing. We do not know the historyOf this nation in ourselves. WeDo not know the history of our-Selves on this planet becauseWe do not have to know whatWe believe we own. We believeWe own your bodies but have noUse for your tears. We destroyThe body that refuses use. We use Maps we did not draw. We seeA sea so cross it. We see a moon,So land there. We love land so Long as we can take it. Shhh. WeCan't take that sound. What isA mother wailing? We do not Recognize music until we canSell it. We sell what cannot beBought. We buy silence. Let usHelp you. How much does it costTo hold your breath underwater?Wait. Wait. What are we? What?What on Earth are we? What?DARKI am sick of your sadness,Jericho Brown, your blackness,Your books. Sick of youLaying me downAll so I forget how sickI am. I'm sick of your good looks,Your debates, your concern, yourDetermination to keep your buttPlump, the little money you earn. I'm sick of you saying no when yes is easyAs a young man, bored with youSaying yes to every requestThough you're as tired as anyone else yetConsumed with a singleDiagnosis of health. I'm sickOf your hurting. I see thatYou're blue. You may be ugly,But that ain't new. Everyone you know isJust as cracked. Everyone you love isAs dark, or at least as black. Excerpted from The Tradition by Jericho Brown All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.