by Renea McKenzie
When I get up in the morning and see the news. When I get up in the morning and see the same, not-new news. The same horror. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. God. WHERE IS JUSTICE? WHERE IS PEACE? How do we carry on. Make sense of the world. Speak light into darkness. When there are no words or strength left for already-been-said, tired-of-being-on-repeat disquisition
We need the steel, stone, wood, and fiber forms of those who create. Bridge to what ought to be. With gates made of mirrors. Help us to see. Look directly at reality we’d rather romanticize, rationalize, make up: blackface or whitewash.
We white-wash to hide. Same old shame-pride. We don’t know our own story. We don’t know. We don’t know we don’t know. We question the wrong things. Why do they still sing that same old song? Billie, Nina, Diana, Dee Dee, Jill. Sing on.
Will we learn to listen? Learn still. Like a seed that lies in blood-soaked ground. Dies to grow.
I hope. I hope.
I hope so.
Renea McKenzie holds an MLA in Literature from Dallas Baptist University and an MA in Humanities from the University of Texas at Dallas. A Texas native, Renea’s work often reflects the intersection of faith and protest and, somewhat similarly, the way north-Texas wildlife stubbornly adapts to the sprawling city.
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