I was looking down

at the piece of paper in my too-tight hand

words waving in the wind on a white flag of surrender

(hands up don’t shoot)

and ash was falling from the sky

and the crackle of my voice

stoked something crackling inside

and the voice was not the unfamiliar spit of the megaphone

it was mine

I was looking up

and all around me were eyes

gazing through still-smoldering moments of movements

of years of youth rising

against a country that once sold black bodies on shores

bombed its children in churches

fought fruitless wars

and still

leaves black and brown children with trauma at their cores

plugs its ears from the gunshots behind bedroom doors

shuns its huddled masses,

its tired and poor

but that day we rose up to say

no more

proved the truth that the spark survives

lived the legacy of the voices that burned down the sky

that moment, we could have been huddled under desks

still shaking our brains free of numbers from a test

and now counting bullets, covering our heads

while our leaders count dollars instead of the dead

so with our backpacks touched by ashy white

we breathed each other’s breaths of smoke taking flight

and built a blaze of flaming light

nerds geeks jocks turned activists

never thought we were bound for this

never thought we’d stand proud for this

never thought we’d chant loud for this

the first time I spoke into a megaphone

I was listening

to the echo of our anthem

we are here.

we are here.

we are here.