Genocide doesn’t only mean bombs at high noon and the cameras panning in on the ruptured stomach of somebody else’s pubescent daughter. A small difference in time and space names that war while we live 117th street at high noon powerlessly familiar. We are raped of our children in silence giving birth to spots quickly rubbed out at dawn on the streets of Jamaica or left all the time in the world for the nightmare of idleness to turn their hands against us.
