Managing Editor Lisa Ampleman: This poem starts off deceptively simply, with a description of rooms and circumstances—a clean fridge, “intact” window blinds, and money in the bank. The title tells us that it’s a futuristic piece, set ten years from now, but the depiction is calm and orderly. Emotion builds as the poem progresses and the speaker describes family and community surroundings in ways that make it clear that all is not right in the present. The refrain of “there are no police” takes the stakes even higher, as it becomes apparent that this poem echoes the contemporary struggle for Black civil rights, with a loose narrative (through negation) about an experience that deeply affected the speaker. KB has carefully crafted a rhythmic and stirring piece about Black life, now and as it could be.
To hear them read the poem, click below:
Black Life circa 2029
Clean fridge.
Spacious, carpeted living room.
Newly swept floors, a wooden desk table.
Designated lunchtime everyday at noon.
SZA playing on vinyl.
Window blinds, open and intact.
Money, crisp and resting in the bank.
Sour gummy worms with wine on the counter.
I visit my mother regularly and tell her I love her.
I don’t flinch when my father raises his arm.
My father raises his arm to hug me.
The hood walks me, and sometimes I walk it back.
The hood is a small utopia of green grass.
All the Cadillacs are Barbie-painted.
I walk the eastside and don’t get hit on.
Black men gleam gold teeth, and there are no police.
I go up the street to get chicken, and there are no police.
The black boy shoots a toy gun; still, no police.
There are no police at the school or hiding behind
exit signs on the freeway. I don’t clutch my
steering wheel when black-and-white cars appear close.
I don’t get handcuffed or questioned—my lover doesn’t
have to hold me. Handcuffs exist only for the filthiest
of kink shit; I don’t have to call in Black the next day.
I don’t replay the night in my head; the ticket
doesn’t get paid off. There’s isn’t a target on my back
that I can’t remove. There isn’t a target on my face
when I cry at night, or in the morning, or in the restroom
during my designated lunch, closer to 12:30.
I love my land comfortable; I love this life, loud.
I have a living—
I have a room.
KB [they/them] is a Black queer nonbinary poet, editor, and educator currently based in Austin, Texas. They’ve received fellowships from Texas Christian University, Lambda Literary, and the Hurston/Wright Foundation. Their poetry appears or is forthcoming in Sappho’s Torque, Vagabond City Lit, Rising Phoenix Review, Foglifter Press, The Shade Journal, and elsewhere. Follow them on Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook.
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