Sep 4, 2015 Uncategorized
For Jamycheal Mitchell
©September 4th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
A shout curled up out of the depths of his being,
A wisp of smoke, a spiral of defiance,
Seeking air, seeking release.
When it did, it became a bubble,
A blip of air that vanished,
As if a life had never been.
And he lay there, broken, in prison,
For five measly dollars worth
Of stolen chemical-infused food.
Too poor, too addled, too frightened
To defend himself in a cruel world,
Which meant to kill him,
A young, black man died.
And his detractors, no doubt,
Blamed him for being who he was:
A black man, who stole snickers.
And he died, hungry, caved in,
And he died, hungry, caved in,
A life vanished like a bubble
In darkness.
And after that, no doubt,
His jailers enjoyed coffee and sunshine.
And went home to their wives, or mothers,
Or sons or daughters, full of
Repudiation, full of denial,
Casually shrugging it off,
Sloughing off responsibility, like snakes
Shedding skin — just a day’s work —
So easy for them!
And somewhere, a universe caved in,
Collapsed, fell for an eternity
Into a well of hell. Morality was lost.
Hatefulness won. Civilizations crumbled.
And somewhere, a new carcinoma
Of demons set up a howl of exultation.
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