Last night I dreamed I saw my cousin again -- You know, the one who said George Floyd deserved to be murdered.

I saw her again in my dream.
We were standing in a room full of complicit faces
finished singing praises
over the old news of a Black man killed by a state
joyful they murdered the son of God
in a public lynching.

In my dream I stayed
breaking bread and dignity
over this story
where Black death is a prerequisite for salvation.

She ate
making a feast of this tragedy
that fed her identity.
And I remembered sitting in pews with her
traumatized by a retelling of a man
who looked like me
murdered by people who looked like her
only to rise in value after ascension
into a heaven
I'm told is too narrow for people like me.

And then I wake up
and live my dream.
Only this time I don't stay
for the meal.
This time I don't make men into martyrs.
I don't celebrate
how expendable Black bodies are.
I don't convince myself we must die
so the people who kill us may live.