115.

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.

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. 

*****

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