911

This poem is not about revolution
Or Malcolm or Tupac or H Rap Brown or revenge
Or an attack on America or even her own injustice
Not even about Assata

But about a mother who rides the blue line at 6
Gets off every morning at the Imperial station
Is a nurse who loves her son even still
Held him in a light only she and God
Could seem to see

He was 16 and licorice black with a
Handsome smile and perfect teeth
Just like his daddy

And was shot and killed by another man and
Woman's boy
That heavy on her neck somehow not being enough
Today she goes about her days remembering
On the eve of her only child's services
While his body wait alone and cold
Beyond a comforters cure
His murderer
Captured only by karma
Maybe
Emptied his body
Spray painted his casket in red letters
Old English font now tattooed on the
Chest of her memory
Swollen and flexed until her forever ends and why

This poem is about the courage it takes to
Somehow remember
He always kissed her goodnight
Ate greens with ketchup
Loved fish with his grits

This is not about Rodney King or Daryl Gates
Natasha Harlins or Stacey Koon
Not even about Soon Ja Du
This poem has nothing to do with Watts 1965
Not really

But kinda

In a way it is about a brave little girl out in
Montebello who was beautiful and 4
Who sat in her room and counted
Dos, tres, quarto, cinco
Loudly under all her pillows

While her father repeatedly stabbed her mother
And then left
And she
Somehow tearlessly embraced her mother's
Bleeding dying body
Patted her hand, rocked said

James te pueden hacer dano
Dios te va hacer bonita

(No one will hurt you
God will make you pretty)

There are many stories
If by chance they should all be told one day
There will be many more even after that
This isn't about La Revolution Mexicana
I already told you that

Only the revolution that occurs in the souls of us
Who still love the spirits
Of those of whom we cannot see


We see these heroes on the bus
On the train
In the next cubicle
At the light
Honoring the memory of those faces that
May never flash across the evening news

And those faces that do

I pray that when I have passed away
I will have created grand memories enough
To sustain my loved ones well

I pray that in the break of morning clear
They will breathe without having to be reminded
Accepting finally

That there is an inevitable death that
Comes with living
Though religions and philosophies do best they can at explanation
They will not ever have power enough to prevent
Having lived life time over and again
I have found laughter to be truest friend
For therein lies
At evil's demise
God within us all

This poem
If indeed it is a poem at all
Is about
Dancing on hurt feet