It’s 28 April 2020

and my husband shows me a video

of his cousin growling

from the pit of his lungs

at his two-year-old son:

        You’re arrested for being brown.

The son runs, a question

mark for a face.

        You’re arrested for being brown.

His father seizes him

playfully, then sets him free.

        You’re arrested for being brown

over and over

        You’re arrested for being brown,

until the son gets what he is

supposed to do: bend over

the bed with his hands behind

his back, even before he gets grabbed.

My husband laughs. I write

a poem; can only regurgitate:

        You’re arrested for being brown.