In my home, a glass box is displayed.

 

This glass box is placed in the center of a table

that is placed in the center of my living room.

Inside the glass box, slave shackles can be found.

The shackled are old.

The shackles are rusted, but

the tremors they ignite each time

I pass by is as new as the breath

I take in each time I look at them.

And why?

Why? You may be asking.

Why are slave shackles displayed

in my home as if they are a prize?

As if they are a reward?

 

I tell you, they are not.

 

These shackles are displayed to

remind me of the heartache

my people faced.

They are displayed to 

remind me that every day

my wrists are not bound and 

my neck is not constricted

within them, my ancestors

sing a song in the heavens:

a song declaring our victory.

These shackles displayed in the

heart of my home are there to

remind me not to take this

day and age in vain.

They remind me to use my voice.

They remind me that I can.

 

For now, my voice is unshackled,

 

meaning, there is no choice but to use it.

My voice is an obligation.

It is an ode to all those who came before me:

the beaten,

the silenced,

the killed,

the voices shackled.

 

For through me,

their voices, too, are now made anew.

 

Note: referred to by PowerPoetry.org