What I Didin't Do

Eighteen years old,
I see a young woman shot;

her long Jamaican body ricochets
off a graffiti wall, her beaded braids
clink against tar pavement.

My eyes hug edges of brown apartment brick
midnight black dissolving my pale stature
I see a volcano erupt from her chest,

worn yellow tank top stained by lava,
chocolate flesh in deep sleep

lies across a white painted foul-line
in barbed wire playground.

I am a witness to murder
a white girl in black man’s Providence,

Rhode Island.
My conscience shouts
Run. Get the police.

My blue cardigan wears
an ounce of cocaine.