To Proud Boys

Your flag is the color of sun-stained backs

drenched in the blood of their brothers, 

drowned by the stifling stench of cotton residue, 

drizzled in gashes ruptured by men 

who looked so much like you. 

Your stars were once stitched 

from bruised fingers in bare attics, 

every thread tamed into fabric 

you hoist into a screaming sky. 

Perhaps you won’t hear me 

over the whistle of  pepper spray, 

but damn. 

I would walk across  

this injured American earth 

that belongs to its wounds, 

And whisper in your ears:

the brown man cries not of the burden on his back, 

but because the white man thinks so deeply

of his own. 

But alas,

this earth between us, 

ablaze in nervous laughter,

laughter at the sightless pride 

of a boy. 

Kanchan Naik

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