Everyone I knew, knew your name,
you’d left the country to study in Europe,
came home to the Black Liberation Movement,
your hair a corona of seeds, refusing to be dismissed.
Unannounced one evening you arrived with friends
at a house party near Yankee Stadium,
a burst of energy like the wind
blowing open police locks
not knowing that in a few years you would be
on the FBI’s most wanted list.
Twice after that I saw you—
once in the Marin County Courthouse
where you sat next to your lawyers, then on video
at the Oakland Museum, gray curls
and yellow scarf, the people’s philosopher
of liberty and freedom.