no poetry
August 26, 2019
Writer and poet Jaki Shelton Green reflects on a photograph by Southbound artist Deborah Luster. As part of our Call & Response series in conjunction with Southbound: Photographs of and about the New South, we’ve asked artists, writers, and poets to respond to a photograph of their choice in the form of short written pieces.
By Jaki Shelton Green
no poetry
no poetry for these hands. no poetry for these trees. no poetry for these men. no poetry for the time you chase. no poetry for dreams that hold you hostage. no poetry for the truth brewing inside crooked hallways crooked courtrooms crooked jailhouses. no poetry for the fog covering the blood. no poetry for the noose flapping against the wind’s tongue. no poetry for the words that make it happen. no poetry for the accused. no poetry for the accuser. no poetry for confederate matchsticks. no poetry for your wild horses storming foreign shores. no poetry for your god who is always late to every funeral of every black child. no poetry for the war guns. no poetry for the hidden ones. no poetry for the nameless corners that claim us over and over again. no poetry for the songs that break apart. no poetry for old stories crawling under locked doors. no poetry for your collection of tongues and burned out moons. no poetry for the make-believe stars in your crown. no poetry. no poetry. no poetry. for the days in between all the years you remembered. no poetry for the days in between all the years you forgot to loosen the noose. no poetry for Juneteenth midnights when you refused to kiss the neck of newborn freedom. no poetry dripping from beneath your slashed armpits. no poetry to erase from the smoke of a M-16. no poetry to sew inside my son’s pockets. no poetry to bury in between my son’s ribs. no poetry to bury inside my son’s mouth. no poetry to bury inside my son’s ears. no poetry to bury beneath my son’s feet. no poetry. no poetry. no poetry. to bury inside my son’s heart. no poetry. no poetry. no poetry. to feed the crows feasting upon his limbs. no poetry for the last breath that cracks into a thousand moments inside a mother’s tear. no poetry for the light inside our children’s eyes trying to find their way home. We are all the poems kissed by the Beloved. We are all the poems daring to grow inside empty bowls. We are all the poems lurking in the shadows. We are all the poems that cannot be forced into cages. We are all the poems holding up the sky. We are all the poems that will no longer sacrifice our seeds to a toxic wind. We are all the poems rattling the ghost bones of the Middle Passage. We are all the poems pissing on bloodstained flags. We are all the poems peeping in windows. We are all the poems dressed to kill. We are all the poems that will not be quiet. We are all the poems waiting to sharpen our oyster knives. We are all the poems wrapped up in dangerous hair waiting to strangle history. We are all the poems that dance and sing us beyond the currency of our skin. We are all the poems becoming forbidden medicine. We are all the poems our ancestors carried from sea to shining sea. We are all the poems unwritten uncensored unworthy of your memorials constitutions air water land. We are all the poems. We need to start a revolution.
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