She stoops
to unclutter;
she stands
to lift you out of the gutter
where your eyes went rolling
when you heard about such a
bizarre concept.
Who would imagine
giving up space for a culture
that no one else considered
worthwhile?
When your ancestors are as invested
as crowding into the room with you---
and you know they're there, because who else could she be responding to
when she stretches, yawls,
approaches purrfection
in the middle of the room?
She is looking
straight into you
through the screen, and the application window
and wondering what you've been reading, or thinking, or imagining,
if that's all there is
to your concept of decolonial.
Her mind set
up the place, her eyes
sight the unhealthier gaze
you often deploy
when it suits you to treat some people, some others
like toys.
She never stood to falter.
She rules the roads
where you will one day wander.
She knows when it's a real plan,
when it's a ploy;
she, alone, knows who is actually out
and therefore able to once more conquer.
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