my brown eyes looked in the yearbook,

at every picture, counting,

counting how many kids looked like me

how many less there was than before

my brown eyes looked at my brown eyes in my picture

at my buck-toothed smile

at my nappy hair

and i’m counting,

counting the brown eyes in my yearbook

counting the brown eyes in the news

described as drug dealers

my brown eyes looked into my uncle’s brown eyes

my uncle, the pastor

was Jesus black?

he probably was

probably

Jesus loves you, you know

did he love Atatiana Jefferson?

what about Tamir Rice?

or the georgia teen?

or the armed black teen?

or the thug?

did Jesus love all the brown eyes in the boundless yearbook of police brutality victims?

probably?

of course he did,

my uncle, the pastor said

because it doesn’t matter if Jesus was black or white or anything in between

He loves you

He loves them

and that yearbook,

the one of love,

is bigger than any damn brutality book will ever be