Thursday, November 7, 2013

My Sons In Repose #11

I wrote this on the night of the verdict from the Trayvon Martin murder trial.  I was in such pain, but my hurt was nothing to match that of my sons'.  What is the answer?  How can I, as a mother of young brown-skinned men, sleep peacefully at night?

Watching my sons in repose
-only asleep, because rest is elusive-
Who can know
that we spoke of
Creole seasoning in breakfast potatoes
(Too much is overkill)
And the significance of symbolism in Steinbeck,
The accompanying perils of prosperity
The origin of Kaiju (they schooled me)
Homophobia and of
Divergent thinking
Artistic ability and

Who would know of
The late night excursion
To feed a cat
Taking extra time to pet it
Because it looked like he hadn't been held
In a while

Caramel to Cocoa
But that only speaks of the skin
Who would know
Of the depths
Do my sons somehow have less value?
Deficient DNA?
The scream wells up in me
Without release
(I dare not raise my voice,
Don't want to create a scene....
God forbid my sons come to my aid
And give someone cause for alarm)

Who would know
I weep as I watch
My sons in repose

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