Daily there are voices in the streets,
the voices of the marginalized
in the fight for their lives.
Also heard is the Tao
making no sound.
The loud-then-quiet oracles of Black parents
crying over their dead children.
At night, I dream the voices
of people I don’t know.
They walk across a field.
My own voice joins the shout:
the people united, will never be divided!
In the woods, the snow falls,
speaks its own language.
Justice*, reinvisioned as a large queer Black woman,
cries out, fist raised, surrounded by her people.
The wind weaves a story,
my memory fills in the voice.
Later, in circle, an Anishinaabe elder
tells me stories of the strawberry, of Turtle Island.
I hear the land
and the land knows me, a colonizer.
Black and brown folks sit in circles,
speak healing between themselves,
the ancestors, the land.
I hear water,
how it pours and splashes.
Justice rumbles if
white folks refuse to be a part of violence.
I hear the sound of dismantling.
The Tao makes no sound,
does by not doing.
*Image: Justice, from the Next World Tarot by Cristy C Road, https://goo.gl/images/oDRrTD-Amy Carpenter