All we get is their eyes. They are brown,
green, blue. They are cloudy and gruff or
clear and clean and
none of them is different from the others.
Theirs is a call to be undifferent
from the others — I mean,
indifferent to the others.
He pulls fleece up over his nose, he says
get out, get in, get the fuck away
And some of us do because we want to live
and we want safety and peace and communion.
And some do not. And some are shot —
four times, ten, whatever number equals
dead.
Some of them say that if we wanted safety, we wouldn’t
be out here and we say,
we mean for all of us
we mean for generations.
We mean that we can see this street on another day, in a different reality where
we can breathe, we can smile, we can create things that our bodies, here,
in this river of blood that is also a street, cannot imagine.
We have known love and joy and community and we know how to make it.
We say this with our signs, our arms, the way we hold our children
on our shoulders, on our backs, in our minds.
We say this to the mouthless, earless, fully armed men.
We say it to their eyes and watch for
a flinch, a flicker.
We don’t wonder, though,
who they go home to,
whether their hearts faulter.
We know that they know that they are an arm,
a fist, a weapon, and that we are the people.
We are the people.
*This piece was written by Kendell as part of Art Gym on January 25, 2026