You sit perched upon
the kitchen windowsill.
Jerusalem outlined behind.
Mary and Joseph on
either side. The baby
Jesus, a small black pebble
from the beach of sand.
There you are, my
little black Jesus.
I hold you in my hand
stroking your smooth surface.
Black lives matter, you say.
Jesus, the source of peace
is black in my hand.
Jesus, my comforter
is black in my hand.
The Jesus on my windowsill
reminds me each day
that black lives matter.

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