A Telegram to George Zimmerman from Mother Earth 
by Robalu Gibsun

Son,
if it were up to me,
I wouldn’t bend you over my knee—
I’d express mail you an earthquake
to crack open the doors beneath your feet
and give you a tour of the hells
the Black community often toils.
Rivers of blood boil. Tears sting as well.
Do the names Emmett Till, Oscar Grant or Sean, ring a Bell?

For 28 years, I taught you
how to dress for the seasons,
but you wore too much pride to change.
They gave you too many times to change
the dead battery in your neighbor/HOOD/watch.

It was sad to watch you move from Manassas to Sanford
only to be a self-appointed anchor to the cops.
“Forecast: Mostly cloudy, chance of discrimination: 100%”

And even if my hurricanes erased race,
the squeaky-clean recordings don’t lie:
From the second you false-started
(after the dispatcher said stop following)
your ass should’ve been disqualified.

I’m curious, George,
when Trayvon screamed for help
did the 9mm sway you to satisfy its sweet tooth?
When your finger licked the trigger,
did his flesh tear as easily as a bag of Skittles?
When only the red ones poured out,
could you taste the rainbow?
Did the guilt ache like a cavity?
Did the pain grow? When he died,
did the criminal injustice on your tongue
taste like 23 ounces of Arizona?
Did your White-half wrap barbwire
around the country of your heart
and deport your Peruvian-half
out of its borders?

No, this ain’t a race thang;
people gotta stay civil, right?
Change the channel or play the game—
Your Father says “Forget race;
this is more of an NBA thang”

And in this court,
we cannot defend your offense:
You took a foul-shot at Trayvon with your Miami Heat,
rode the bench to the beach and laid up under your shell.
Quote: “These assholes always get away” End quote.
It’s ironic, you did; stop talking about yourself.

You ought to be prayin’
you ought to be reading your King James,
ought to join Dwayne and wade in the water.
Because a rock can’t hide you in its shade
if the Devil’s got your name in his order.

You ought to be prayin’
‘cause Trayvon made it to heaven,
met Nina Simone, rewrote her song
and started sangin’ together
“Oh, Zimmerman, where you ‘gon run to?”
And where ever you choose,
you can’t escape my gravity—
so we’ll always be in touch.

I told you to keep your hands to yourself
‘cause the world was sick of swallowing Darkness
but you stole Tracey and Sabrina’s son.

But the Day will come,
when Father Sky
pulls out his loaded
Sun and shoots light
to tear the flesh of each cloud
as easily as a bag of Skittles.
Only then would justice
and righteousness roll down
like a mighty stream
of Arizona Iced tea.

Sincerely,

a mother who gave you the ground to stand on
and loves you enough to take it back.