There’s something empty
About this American Amnesia we’re fed
This forgetting
Quietly whispered
There’s something empty
About waking up in the morning
With the dull ache
Saying “forget, forget”
And distance has always been a good excuse
To scroll past one more destruction
I can’t handle the reality of that.
Sandra Bland’s mother, Geneva Reed-Veal, said “When the cameras and lights are gone, our babies are dead.”
She said, “by a show of hands, can any of you tell me the other six women who died in jail in July 2015 along with Sandra Bland? No? You are among the walking dead.”
How do we resist
This slow descent
This covering and covering
How do we remember who we are
On haunted land?
I wanted to sing the most healing song
I didn’t succeed
Because it was hard
And maybe all I can really give
Is my incomplete poem
Saying, “Here are my hands”
What are in yours?
I see no way out when I look this way
But when I look at you, I feel infinite
I feel the beyond beyond.
There are still beautiful things happening
I refuse to be the walking dead.
But as Rilke said
For one human being to love
Another human being:
That is perhaps the most difficult
Task that has been entrusted to us,
The ultimate task,
The final test and proof,
The work for which all other work is merely preparation.
Will you love me in this haunted land?
Will you sing your song, any song?
Will you share your unfinished poem?
Will you hold on?
Here are my hands.