Monday, July 15, 2013

I don't have any words for Trayvon Martin, so I'll borrow these instead:


Anyone’s Son

     — for the family of Trayvon Martin

This poem wants to write itself backwards. 

Wishes it were born memory instead, skipping

time like a record needle stuck on the line 

of your last second. You sit up. Brush not blood,

but dirt from your chest. You sit up. You’re in bed. 

Bad dream. Back to sleep. You sit up. Rise and shine.

Good morning. This is the poem of a people united 

in the uniform of your last day. Pockets full

of candy, hooded sweatshirt, sweet tea. This poem 

wants to stand its ground, silence force

with simple words, pray you alive, anyone’s 

son — tall boy, eye-smile, walk on home.

                                                                                  Tara Skurtu

poem source:

photo source: (photographer uncredited)

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