"Run, Negro!"

Thirty-five(ish) blocks,
and a flame that spent days
burning itself tired,

Three hundred(ish)
Black folks murdered
into anonymity.

Greenwood
has a soggy, muck clay,
a damp inconsistency
of earth, Constitution,
and bone.

Some buried homeless in Oaklawn,
some trampled beneath the dirt.

A history tucked away
in attic floorboards
long enough to forget
all it once was.

America has a way of dancing  - (Dancers enter)
with its own delusion.

Unable to keep count of its murders
because it, then, would have to keep
count of its murderers,

Its good neighbors.

All insurance claims denied
to the residents of Greenwood
and business owners
of Black Wall Street.

And, left, a people
holding their memory
through tongue
folklore,
blood, postcard,
church tale.

And, left, a people
chasing a memory
that wasn't
supposed
to become
a memory
at all.