It's clearly been a while ... and I'd hoped that the inclination to return to this Jungle would be under better circumstances. What brings me back is the need to fall at the feet of the word. To break silence in the midst of a world of grief is heavy-hearted, but it is also heart-healing.
I began working on this piece when it was shared that the total number of black men slain by police in 2016 was 115. It has since risen above that count, and while the number may seem small in comparison to the lives lost every day, all year, sum and total ... for me, death is a weight, and 115 or 15 or 5 is too heavy. And with the events of Dallas, the senseless loss of public servants aiming to protect those who protest senseless loss ... it feels all the more important to memorialize, to take stock of death, and to take some small solace in life.
So I dedicate this to the fallen in blue. I dedicate this to the fallen in brown. To put it simply, I dedicate this to The Fallen.
*****
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*****
I began working on this piece when it was shared that the total number of black men slain by police in 2016 was 115. It has since risen above that count, and while the number may seem small in comparison to the lives lost every day, all year, sum and total ... for me, death is a weight, and 115 or 15 or 5 is too heavy. And with the events of Dallas, the senseless loss of public servants aiming to protect those who protest senseless loss ... it feels all the more important to memorialize, to take stock of death, and to take some small solace in life.
So I dedicate this to the fallen in blue. I dedicate this to the fallen in brown. To put it simply, I dedicate this to The Fallen.
115.
For The Fallen
1.
The rule, my
son,
is to keep
thy hands up
and for
godssake
keep
breathing.
2.
I can’t
breathe.
The world
rocks
my spirit to
the
floor.
One of these
mornings—
it won’t be
very
long …
3.
You will
look for me—
but I’m
already gone.
Maybe I will
rise up
from fear.
Maybe I will
go down
in fear.
4.
And lord—if
I die
let my life
be more
than
taglines.
Let my
legacy
be legacy.
5.
Save the
hashtags
#foranotherday.
6.
The year is
1865.
The year is
1955.
The year is
1990.
The year is
2003.
The year is
2015.
7.
The line is
“Still breathing.”
The line is
“Still trying.”
The line is
“Still aching.”
The line is
“Still dying.”
8.
“Just because
we are magic—
does not mean
we are not also …”
9.
Reeling—trusting
there’s a lifeline
to hold on
to.
Caught on
the hook
and reeling—
praying for
an end
to the tide.
10.
All I have
are words.
Buzzing like
bees, running like water,
piercing
like knives,
heavy as the
weight of Atlas.
Where are
you, oh mighty ancient,
when the
world
rolls heavy
and southward
and pins us
to thy
mighty spine?
11.
Please don’t
tell me
how to save
my own life
when the
radio sign is Double Oh Seven.
The streets
have a license to kill—
and all I
have is a black card.
12.
Take a
moment—
a moment to
breathe deep the last breath of
male, black,
sitting on a swing—
impossibly
young when two shots
ripped youth
at the seams,
rattling,
baby breaths. And silence.
In time,
child, you, too
can be forgotten,
etched memory in
earth
beneath which you once dared to run.
13.
What were
the magic words
that taught
our people to fly?
Where is the
spell
that will
keep us alive?
14.
I don’t
think I can go on—my tongue
too thick
with words unspoken,
a pain too
deep and heavy to bear
in the space
between breath
and the
anchor of teeth
that would
rather shatter than speak
one more
time enough
is enough
is enough
is enough
is enough
is enough
is enough …
15.
And my
insides are hollow.
I fill the
space of my womb
with the
dreams of kings
and the hope
that someday
we shall overcome.
What will be
the afterbirth
of another
tomorrow?
16.
Disparity:
When we fear
the night’s darkness, we turn on a light.
See, we
shudder the dark, but don’t tell it to die.
We cherish
the stars, yes, in spite of the sky.
There’s
peace in the night—we don’t tell it to die.
17.
There must
be a reason.
There must be a reason?
This
reaching ever for a why
is as barren
as strange fruit
dangling
from the vine for any hand to pluck
but before
it hits the ground we ask it—
Why?
18.
Mother
Emmanuel—I almost forgot your cries.
The river of
pain flowing in yellow lines
from iron
posts that hold your upright frame.
Your name
whispers
embers,
spinning
fragments of God
with us.
You wrap
your arms around the living—
you who mad
men made a grave.
19.
There is
nothing to fear but fear itself.
And what
fear can do.
And that
fear is the obsidian spider.
And that fear
is the hand
that sweeps
it down
and stomps
it out.
And that fear
is the hammer
and the stop
and the
bullet
and the
blood.
And there is
nothing to fear—
but fear,
itself,
and what
fear can do.
20.
America, oh
child of the new world, you kiss
with iron
and steel. You never heed
your
mother’s warnings.
To look both
ways
before you
cross that road.
To know
when no
means no.
To kill with
kindness—
no, with
kindness—
no, with kindness.
21.
Maybe pain
won’t conquer.
Maybe we can
use our hands
to make the
world beautiful again.
Maybe hate
won’t win.
Maybe we can
make us,
all,
beautiful again.
22.
Son—we cut
you from the evening sky
and dotted
your dreams with stars.
We forget
the darkness in you—
we forgive
the darkness in you.
We watch you
laugh and scream with joyous fists
against your
ancient home and wonder
where the
world will spin you
—maybe to
the grave.
#wesayyourname:
We hold you
up in twilighting shadows
praying even
the moon rays
don’t pierce
you like the forked tongue
of modern
justice.
We pray you
never fall
blood for
blood.
We pray you—
blood for
blood.
24.
I hear
sirens singing Emily Dickinson—
because I could not stop for Death …
hear the
roar of a world I tremble to touch,
to tough, to
toast: To walk. To death.
To breathe.
To death.
To kneel. To
death.
To reach. To
death.
I hear
sirens singing
Emily
Dickinson
—He knew no haste …
24.
Daughter—I carry
you in my mouth
with the
names of every sister whose name
goes
unspoken when the day is done.
I give you
all the names there have ever been,
secreting
only one for myself,
and that is
my own, and that you take with you.
My every
breath, your every breath—
and forgive
me when I don’t hold back,
clench my
jaw to keep you safe,
not
statistic,
not sambic
with the melody of death
that
breathes its own cadence
to the rhythm
you dance upon my vocal chords.
I speak you
every moment every breath
into being,
and leave you
every breath
every moment
at death’s
door.
25.
Black is a
magic
that cannot
be qualified.
To hash, to
hold,
to rise in
the wake of another wake …
One of these mornings—it won’t be very long
Magic spread
deep
from a home
of darkened hips,
the hyssop
of our Mother’s womb.
To hinge, to
hope
—you will look for me—
spread wings
of corvus
over and
over
in dreams we
ache to real,
to real,
to peel back
this sorcerous skin,
this magic—
and I’ll be gone.
*****
Want to stay connected? I invite you to connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Please also sign up for the free email updates from Our Lost Jungle!
Want to be the first to know about upcoming Jungle happenings? Sign up for the Our Lost Jungle Newsletter for updates, contest alerts, and more! Sign up here, or use the link at the top of the right column!
*****
I also haven't written in a long time Khara and I feel it's time for the same sad reasons.
ReplyDeleteThis is beautiful. You are beautiful.
Shelley-Lynne Domingue
Powerful and needed...your voice is a truth that must be heard. Number 24 struck me big-time. Thank you, Khara for this and all you do. ♥
ReplyDeleteKhara! Wow! Such an insipid word to describe your tour-de-force. This is magnificent. I am sorry it was inspired by events that have scorched all of us inside and out, but feel blessed with what your soul and your innate talent have wrought. Good to hear your voice again.
ReplyDeleteKhara, this is so sadly beautiful and heartfelt. The mentions of Emily Dickinson's "Death" are hauntingly apt to the focus of your poem. Take care.
ReplyDelete