Bulletproof Dreams

Your silver won’t ever stop me, even after it strikes me
in the head and the cop that discharged it from his barrel
with intentions to free me from the nightmares I have about

his kind cries to the jury that his life was in jeopardy because
my phone looked like a weapon, and the moon was high and howling.
Even after my community marches through the streets demanding

restitution and makes a memorial in front of the bodega I was assassinated
outside of, the same bodega whereas a kid I’d grab the red pack of Skittles with
a bottle of Poland Spring water while walking through the isles with vast visions

of making it so big that even when I got stopped by the cops, I’d be fine
because everyone will recognize me. Even when you see me more as an
animal than a human and destroy my body with your brass bullet, I still
won’t be stopped because the most powerful protection doesn’t come from

the taxpayer dollars that I pay you to protect me,

nor in the form of vests, shields, helmets and hefty glass. My soul is guarded by
something much larger than us, a force that keeps our dreams alive long after
I’m unable to physically consult my mother as tears drop from her

brown eyes upon a settlement check from the city, inadequate compensation for
the slaying of my Black body. A body whose heart added boundless love to a world
so dark, and whose brain contained everlasting ideas worth more than gold.

By Isaiah Diaz-Mays