I knew the price I’d pay
if I danced my soul for you.
Shined my shoes with oil
from the sunflowers we once grew.
We walked Onile as Seraphim, scraped our memory
for knowledge and asked the docile watch us flap new wings.
Didn’t think of the future but knew freedom came with a cost.
Some costs came to us as visions: A moon obstructing the sun.
Eight hundred forty-nine waning crescents for Kenyatta’s soul.
Bees perched on one woman’s hand, the descendant of the man
told Pastor Turner ‘bout fate. Never once did we ask
for forgiveness,
even when we slaughtered the women and children.
The black and white amongst us converged
the black and white amongst us mixed
the black and white, like a haze, wept a free ringing
both rough and smooth. We sure bore it.
We asked their God to help us and he did.
Drones hover now above Urusalim, like time
delivering sutures though we don’t know for who.
Schyler Butler is the author of Phantom Hue (CavanKerry Press, 2026). Born in Columbus, Ohio, Schyler has received support from the Ohio Arts Council and the Greater Columbus Arts Council. Her work appears in and is forthcoming from Obsidian, African American Review, North American Review, swamp pink, and elsewhere.
