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
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?
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