In the quiet depths of 3 AM, you finally lift
the veil you’ve held all day, the weight

of avoidance, a shadow growing, whispering
doubts that a black woman would never rise,

no not in this country, not in this life.
Now, you lie in the stillness of night,

your deepest fears nestled within the confines
of your bed, each thought a weight of granite

built over millennia, sinking into your molten core.
Years of restless nights, endless mornings

filled with routine, fleeting moments of intense
dread, & the silent pauses where hope grazes.

The world outside feels unstable,
a moving current of uncertainty & unease,

wind & ice carrying away the minutes,
leaves of doubt binding your resolve—

how to bear this weight, when each bone
bears the relentless onslaught of unseen

impacts etching fine fractures like frost
upon a barren windowpane. Hairlines

marking the struggle between unwavering
strength & the slow, cumulative weight of time.

Then, when the weight lifts (if it ever does),
like Atlas you struggle to hold it alone.

Oh fear—it is both comfort & cage,
like roots entwining a fallen tree,

gripping the marrow of your being,
tearing through the dense earth,

your frame strained & brittle in the twilight.
You’d burrow deep within those roots,

carry their weight upon your back,
navigate this unholy union that is fear,

beyond comfort & delight,
beyond the charm of daylight.

This is the pestilent fear of night,
the alleys & broken glass of uncertainty,

the petals torn from the branches of hope,
the dizzy, hoarse cry, the stubborn hunger

to rise, to make breakfast, to wake your children,
to move through a world that feels unsafe,

to step into the day when all you know
is a place you fear to inhabit.