Trayvon Martin: Requiem
February 5, 1995 – February 26, 2012
When Words
When words cough
in a hot wind.
When a fist kisses
the concrete over
and over until
bones break, stones
stick to blood
where skin was.
They do not
wash out
and a boy is
gone.
In The Courtoom
In the courtroom
the lawyers used
a foam dummy,
a barely human shape,
faceless and colorless,
just like America
is not.
They hoped
to show the how
and where and if
of a boy’s last moments.
To show the how and
and where and if
of a man’s worst act.
The lawyers wanted us
to see these questions.
But they failed.
No one can see
questions.
Litany
A mother should
never have to
ask for the body
of her son
more than once.
But in America
this repetition is
a pleading, a litany
to which we respond
with faith: No.
He will not be buried
in Mississippi: No.
His name is not John
Doe: No.
He was riding
the BART train
home, not starting
anything: No.
A collapsed life
should not lie
four hours in a street,
bleeding in protest: No.
You may not take
a photograph of
his body: No.
His story will not
end in Memphis: No.
Rain
Rain does not
bless this
body, like holy
water might. A
boy broken by a
man who was
afraid. A boy
ruined by a
country who is
still afraid.
Rain washes,
like holy water
might. Rain
makes holy,
like holy water
might. But not
this. Some
wounds cannot be
washed clean.
Some sidewalks
will never be holy.
Some nights rain
is a liar. Tonight
rain looks
the same on
living skin
as it does
on dead.
Here
Here are jump shots
that will not
arc toward
anything.
Here are free throws
that will not
silence a gym.
Here are steals
where the point
guard does not see
the ball slapped
away in a blur
of hands and bent
knees. Here,
the guard does not
fall back
on his heels
watching this
boy streak
toward a ghost
basket.