"self-evident"
"self-evident" by Matthew E. Henry, or MEH, caught my attention with its multiple and powerful layers. Told as an adult memory, it enters the moment when a child is asked to believe their own history isn't real but to focus instead on a cleaner, more inspiring narrative. For me, Henry's poem tackles rock-hard truths with personal experience and simple questions, and in so doing reexamines what we teach our children.
~ Mare Heron Hake, Poetry Editor TLR
See the rest here.
“Condolences On The Passing Of Your confederate Monument”
The Writing Process
Step 1. - Be pissed off
Step 2. Write
Step 3. Submit at 12:30 am
Step 4. Have an acceptance letter by 1 am
And such is the tale of the publication of my (brand) new poem “Condolences On The Passing Of Your confederate Monument,” currently up at The New Verse News.
Finding a little bit of dark humor in the midst of utter business as usual bullshit in this country.
“…and who is my neighbor?”
Jesus replied,
“a man was going down from [insert place of work,
convenience store, home, or church] to [insert place of work,
convenience store, home, or church] unarmed,
and fell into the hands of officers, who stopped him for
[insert _____-ing while Black reason]. they shot him,
stood above his leaking body, and left him for dead.
now, by chance, a white man [Evangelical]
was going down his Twitter feed.
and when he saw him, he scrolled quickly past
saying, #BlueLivesMatter.
likewise, a white woman [Presbyterian]
came to the place on her Facebook feed.
she saw him and scrolled quickly past
saying, #AllLivesMatter.
but when [insert the least expected] saw him,
they came near. moved with pity and outrage,
they went to the dead man’s family
to bandage their wounds, pouring action
and appropriate silence as compassion.
they put the burdens on their backs,
addressed them as they were able.
the next day they had not forgotten,
but took two friends and encouraged them
to more than march or hashtag the moment,
saying, ‘we will continue the Work together.
be not afraid: the Lord will repay
whatever social capital we spend.’”
then Jesus asked,
“which of these three was a neighbor
to the man who fell into unholy hands?”
the [insert an asshole “playing devil’s advocate”] said,
“the one who acknowledged his dignity.”
and Jesus replied,
“now go, and do likewise.”
First published in Poemeleon A Journal of Poetry’s The Truth/y Issue: Volume XI Spring 2020
"Sarah Rose (“Rosie”) Williams remembers her Mama"
Sarah Rose (“Rosie”) Williams remembers her Mama
well there was this one time I ain’t never spoke of
before. when Paulie and me was headin’ up to the store
them three Parson boys was comin’ down the path
lookin’ mean as Uncle Earl’s bitch hound Sophia
when Oscar the cat done scratched her pups
two summers gone. them white boys was raised
mean by the switch and leather strap their daddy
wore ‘round his neck. “fo’ easy correctin’” he would say.
their mama done ran oft on their daddy ‘cause she said
she had took all the correctin’ she was ever needin’.
I was holdin’ Paulie’s hand tight as my fist could manage
while he squirmed and hollered a bit but I told him hush
‘cause I had forgot Daddy’s pocket knife in my apron
atop the coal stove like he had told me never to do
a hundred times plus more. then Paulie fell silent
as if noticin’ them for the first time. he stopped squirmin’
but I could feel him squeeze his eyes closed
through the skin. I prayed the Lord Jesus would come
and take us off that path and hold us in His almighty arms
tight as I held Paulie. I prayed my Granddaddy’s angel
would put up his harp and fly down with a fiery sword
or head home and grab the rifle he used to kill white boys
like these durin’ the war that done won him his freedom
but too soon them white boys was right on top of us
and I heard no rushing of angel wings. we had nowhere to go
to the left or right ‘cause the path was curved like their hate
and narrow as their blue ice eyes. I was scared
as they stood above us. too scared to move a hair.
they had somethin’ in their hands but I couldn’t see what.
and Paulie was about to wet his pants from the way
he was shakin’ and I guess them three white boys
could tell too ‘cause they started to laugh. I closed
my eyes and waited for the Devil to come and
I kept them closed for forty days and nights
surrounded by wild animals in a wilderness
waitin’. I felt a hand on my shoulder but I was too afraid
to lash out or struggle or nothin’. I just stood there
waitin’ until I heard my Mama’s voice comin’ through that hand
and turned ‘round to see her standin’ there with an expression
that I have no words to tell ‘bout but she wasn’t lookin’ at me
or Paulie but down the road at them three Parson boys runnin’ away
from my daddy’s shotgun like stone in her right hand.
she kissed us both on the forehead and pried our hands apart.
she put Paulie on her back and took my sweaty palm in hers.
the whole time her round eyes never left the far end of that path.
and then we walked home. she muttered somethin’
under her breath I couldn’t quite make out but I’m pretty sure
that was the only time I ever heard Mama cuss.
First published in The Raven Chronicles. (2009)
“3 Conversations with white girls”
I.
“so, you’re Colored right?”
this after asking me to
her prom. the year
’97; there are no words
to describe why: i said “yes”
II.
“historically, Blacks
had it better than women”
true as 2nd class
citizens. she forgets: once
i was legally livestock
III.
“I’m fine officer”
he left disappointed:
sorry, no rape rescue
but she remained incensed at
this insight into real life
Originally published in Word is Bond: A Journal of Urban Poetry. (2004). These poems are a play on the Japanese tanka.
“station of the cross”
it is finished. but the smell of cordite
and fear linger long after their anger
rent the night’s sky. 3 of 42: birds
roosting deep within his warmth, resting
his head. he was sitting at the bus stop,
finishing a simple meal, while fitting
the ubiquitous description. betrayed
by his Blackness, like so many
pieces of silver. see this holy tableaux:
arms outstretched, head bent at awkward
angles. empty eyes track his spirit
through the plastic dome—its sides
punctured by the other 39
and ricochets from chipped concrete.
a canopy of stars cloistered in stained glass,
back-splashed by blood.
“station of the cross” was first published by 3Elements Review (Issue 20) and nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Two Poems in The Radical Teacher
when asked what i learned in elementary school being bussed from Mattapan to Wellesley
what they think is appropriate: to treat Black hair
like a pregnant woman’s belly, question if
larger nostrils enhance breathing, probe my legs
for extra calf muscles under skin our teacher said
doesn’t bruise because she can’t see
the bloodscreams beneath. …
the surprising thing
i’ve only been called “nigger” once by a student— at least
in my presence— and that under his breath. i wonder
if i’m doing something wrong, if it’s my fault it happened
only that one time. …
First published in The Radical Teacher Vol 112 (2018)
“stop talking”
stop talking
sitting in a colleague’s class, i listened
to high school students compare a Christian baker
denying wedding cakes to same sex couples,
to Black men asked to perform a song and dance
for the KKK….
First published in Rise Up Review (Summer 2019)