Sweet Tea

In Memory of Trayvon Martin

It's supposed to be
icy condensation
running down the side
of a glass,
not the sudden, cold sweat
of fear.
Laughing conversation
on a screened in lanai,
not tires moving slowly
through a muggy night.
Sweet tea,
it's meant to be shared,
offered from one friend to another.
Sweet tea is heritage,
passed from a mother's hand,
a living pulse felt
as the glass is passed,
not blood
spilled on a sidewalk.
Sweet tea is everywhere.
We turn to it
to cool us
when the heat runs high,
and the atmosphere
weighs us down.
But now,
it is bitter
on my tongue.