Someone has begun
to puzzle the pieces
of the shattered bowl
back into place.
The fractured pattern flows,
a twisted pathway,
across the scarred surface.
The break will always be visible.
Somewhere in the distance
a voice is calling, “Cry Out!”
And what shall I cry?
Hands up! Don’t shoot!
Black lives matter.
I can’t breathe!
Justice!
I will not cry for an unholy peace
which rests upon your shoulders.
My cry is only my breath,
all I have to offer
until we all can breathe together.
Mockingbird Chronicles 
thanks for this. i had the same question this morning: how does one cry out when one can’t breathe?
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I like the way you word the question. I just kept trying and trying to fit it into something that would have a resolution, but it’s too raw. How shall we cry out when we can’t breathe? I’ll hold that one this week.
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