My body rejects attempts to drink milk, so
I guess I struggle swallowing white lies. Being
black in a black city ruled by white profits,
there is a fear of our sharpness, our words, fear
we may bite the hands that feed us as if these
same hands haven’t been force feeding poisonous
political policies to the people, targeted zombies
unless we make the agenda easier to consume. We
get extracted and exterminated, unless we make
the rebirth look pretty enough to produce more prophets
willing to move in. Detroit isn’t making a comeback. That
that would mean it would have to die first. Schools get
closed. We go bankrupt after hosting every major sports
championship. Water gets shut off after the mayor can
somehow find funds for new stadiums, and a train. Not
much is known about the life of Lazarus after his rebirth.
Nobody to locate him. No body to locate when the missing
person is forgotten. Everyone praises the resurrection
without remembering the other Lazarus, how
he was left to die in the street, much like us.
By Deonte Osayande
Deonte Osayande is a former track and field sprinter turned writer from Detroit, Mi. He writes nonfiction essays and his poems have been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology, a Pushcart Prize and published in numerous publications. He has represented Detroit at multiple National Poetry Slam competitions. He’s currently a professor of English at Wayne County Community College, and teaching youth through the Inside Out Detroit Literary Arts Program. His first full collection of poems entitled Class, is now out with Urban Farmhouse Press.