Dear Mr. Shabazz— 

I knew you were going to be my hero 
The moment my APUSH teacher scoffed at you 
And dismissed you as “violent.” 

That’s how I knew you were important. 

Cuz when they get angry 
And dismissive 
That’s how you know you struck a nerve. 

I’m not like you; I can’t stick to a strict foot or iamb.
But I can write a proper verse
Even though it’ll die, like all men do–
But not the memory of you,
Never the memory.

So I wonder often how you might react if you saw what’s up now.

Not to bother you but
Help me out here, Malcolm

All my friends are hollow;
Their eyes are white goo and bleed down their cheeks,
They spend so long lying at the feet of the white devil.
The white devil has turned now into the elites and the elite bourgeoisie
Or perhaps they’ve always been that way?
And I don’t know what to do

Even though my adolescent fingers itch to do something.
And I sometimes regret being born a creative rather than someone with more brain
Since maybe if I had, I might actually do something
Worthwhile.

Help me out here, Malcolm.

Cuz I’m sick of watching.
I’m sick of watching
And they’re sick of dying.
And we’re all quite tired down here.

And I’m sitting here,
My face lit up by the faint glow of my screen.
Starvation and murder and genocide
Wail at my eyes.
Where are you?

Cuz I don’t know how I’m gonna do it.
I simply just don’t know how the hell I’m going to do it.

Claim your rocking chairs and
Your solipsistic sunsets,
But close your eyes and listen.
The cicadas have silenced, and listen!
Is it quiet?

Bibles, Torahs, and Bhagavad Gitas
Turn into laminated eviction notices or zoning ordinances stapled unregretfully to cracked doors
Function like scripture, the
unquestionable, abstract, 
preached by priests who don’t live within their consequences.

And there—the anterior part of your head.
The fetal pig might say marred
I say that the thing in-between of your pancreas and your large intestine
Leaves the noise
For the solitude of oblivious sunsets.

Watch the names fade from mailboxes,
The floor forget the weight of what once stood
And as Santa Muerte reaches for you
I hope you spare us a glance
Because we will look for you often,
too.

• AUTHOR’s NOTE: Renee Nicole Macklin wrote the American Poets award winning poem “On Learning To Dissect Fetal Pigs” back in 2020. It is highly recommended to read her poem beforehand, as it not only is a powerful piece of literature, but this poem engages with and responds to Macklin’s piece.

This poem was originally created in January, 2026.

Disclaimer:
I am not a pretentious fool.
I know my worth.
I am not going to write about
How the spirit of the people who built this country
Sways with the wind in our flag!!!!11!!!!1!!

No.
Cuz they didn’t build this country.
At least, not for the most part.
We seem too often to forget the sacrifices
Of those with a little more melanin
Or a little less money
Than us.

At the risk of repeating myself,
I am not a pretentious fool.
I am not going to write
About the white men
Building this country now.
Cuz they’re not, but

My mom is,
With her kindness
Which she channels into her work
And her food.

My dad is,
With his strength
Which he channels into his carpentry
And his love for all of us.

My brother is,
With his life
And his liberty
And his pursuit of happiness

And all their spreading of it.

I am not a pretentious fool.
I don’t tend to prescribe definitions to people.
But when I see
My mother laying spices out to dry
My dad sawing away at a plank of wood (walnut, he says)
My brother excited because his hard work payed off
Their hands glow red, white, and blue.

So when I see the men on TV
Preaching their hate crimes like gospel
All I see
Is the crimson red
Staining their soft hands.

I hate that 
Icarus gets all the ink. 
His hubris penned down for eternity while 
His scorched flesh watched on. 

But never is it Daedalus. 
Daedalus, who waits. 
The waiting Daedalus. 

He whose only thought is of memory, 
Of feathers floating on the surface of majestic blue waters, 
Waves moving like music. 

And perhaps now he wishes he hadn’t left. 
Perhaps he wishes for prison, for confinement to the grey brick walls 
Would surely be more comfort than the prison of his mind. 

And he might sometimes still walk the sandy shores and miss it all. 
His son, his wings, his flaws. 
And still he waits. 
Daedalus, who waits. 
The waiting Daedalus. 

And I looked, and there was this ugly brown girl asking for some less brownness, perhaps.

I was not God, and I could not have made it so, and it broke my heart right in two– to look at this here brown girl, who was ugly by her own standard.

Before what I saw that time, there was a smaller girl. She was pretty (by her own standard), and so then, when she asked for the change, I had sat there rather awkwardly because I didn’t know it was a long time gone since she felt comfortable in her own skin.

So I stared her down, right through her ugly golden-flecked hazel eyes, and wished right then and there that I could work miracles.

I wanted awful bad to take her head and lay it along the road line;
Wanted horribly for an eighteen-wheeler to come along and pacify her mind.

And the leaves changed colors.
She did not.

I waited long.
Watched the vibrance fade from the trees,
As Shakespeare turned to Plato, and then Socrates–

She wanted blue eyes.
I turned away mine.

I came from mountains.
From the memory of تبدیل,
Of change,
Regurgitated from the depths of what may have been.

I came from spring.
From the hope of نوی صبح, 
Of a new tomorrow,
Thrown from one not-home to the next
Confused about what may be.

My family calls me their زُو ,
their soul,
But meaning so much more
Their tether to this life.

But they ask:
And what ruins a ruin?
The memories of the past.
And why must you yearn for what you have lost?
The memories they own must last.

I’m holding your frail body by its throat.
Ribs showing, spine poking from your back,
More skeleton than flesh,
You stare back at me.

My intention is not for your pain.
I am but a marionette.
Your starvation is set in my strings.

You’re less than three feet tall.
After all, you are all small.
All shades of brown.

I can’t tear my gaze from your form.
I am guilty of these crimes.
Sabr, sabr, sabr.
Patience, patience, patience.

I will bide my time.
I will learn, then grow,
And it may cost you your life.
But when the time comes,
And it will,
I will strike.
We will.

Sabr, sabr, sabr.
Patience, patience, patience.

For now, though,
I see my shame hidden within your reflection.
I see the sadness in your eyes.
And momentarily, I am afraid–
Can you see mine?