I wrote this poem in September of 2020, just after I heard the news about the grand jury decision in the case of the shooting of Breonna Taylor.
They say it is risky to sit with the dying
When living amidst a pandemic.
When the air itself is heavy
With death and rumors of death.
If I die before finishing these lines,
Please fill them out as I intended,
Dear reader. Please fill in my
Apology.
You died before you finished,
Before any of us could read your
Words.
What kind of poet were you?
Once, I was interrogated in my car
For my proximity to a crime scene.
I was told “You are free to go; you are not
Black.” I still seem to walk in that freedom.
It is not hard for me to be a citizen
Here but for the days when I am made
Aware of the ease of my citizenship.
Your middle name was Shaquille.
A wall was broken, and a man was punished
For its destruction. You, too, were broken.
And we mourn, for they, too,
Walk in freedom. But this is not
The freedom I was promised.
Give me the freedom you were Promised.
I have no right to say these things
Except for my right to say anything
I choose. I choose to sit here. I choose
To sit with the dying. I choose to stand.
Lord,
Have mercy. Christ, have mercy.
(September 23, 2020)
