"handgun" poems - Hello Poetry

on tuesday, dylann roof was sentenced to his death. on tuesday we tried to make one body feel like nine. to make one body feel like justice. on tuesday we said there has got to be some price to pay for entering the house of god with a sinful tongue and a handgun. today, six days later, we remembered the rev. dr. martin luther king, jr. we looked at the world, called it a place with potential for change, called it that because there has to be some softer way to look at bloodshed, for sanity’s sake. if not then all that remains is a solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave because he knows, knows that breathless black bodies are a constant, are transcenders of time, whether sunken in rivers, hung from taut ropes, or bathing in blood on historic church floors, singing, singing, screaming, shrill for some messiah bringing mercy, mercy, mercy. felicia sanders wants mercy: prays for it, wills it down from up above, unfolded from the hands of god so that it might fall upon the head and in the eyes and within the very being of the man who killed her son. it takes a certain grace — one so foreign to me i can hardly write of it — to see god in such men who deliberately defy Him, to ask that heaven’s gates be so indiscriminate and overt. i would want him to burn for this. but it is not my say, not my life, not my long, resounding, unflinching “hallelujah!” not my certain type of grace. breathless black bodies are a constant, are transcenders of time, a recurring motif. but so too, then, is the black body full of breath, that inhales and exhales faith without ceasing. such is the black body that sees a little bit of god in dylann roof, that prays that he prays for forgiveness, that thinks there to be but one kingdom, and he, too, a worthy subject. the solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave is not a surprise. the black body has always known so well how to die. but felicia sanders hopes her son’s killer finds mercy. perhaps the one thing the black body has always known better is how to love. (a.m.)

0

Jan 20, 2017

Jan 20, 2017 at 8:07 PM UTC

aarxn

mercy

on tuesday, dylann roof was sentenced to his death. on tuesday we tried to make one body feel like nine. to make one body feel like justice. on tuesday we said there has got to be some price to pay for entering the house of god with a sinful tongue and a handgun. today, six days later, we remembered the rev. dr. martin luther king, jr. we looked at the world, called it a place with potential for change, called it that because there has to be some softer way to look at bloodshed, for sanity’s sake. if not then all that remains is a solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave because he knows, knows that breathless black bodies are a constant, are transcenders of time, whether sunken in rivers, hung from taut ropes, or bathing in blood on historic church floors, singing, singing, screaming, shrill for some messiah bringing mercy, mercy, mercy. felicia sanders wants mercy: prays for it, wills it down from up above, unfolded from the hands of god so that it might fall upon the head and in the eyes and within the very being of the man who killed her son. it takes a certain grace — one so foreign to me i can hardly write of it — to see god in such men who deliberately defy Him, to ask that heaven’s gates be so indiscriminate and overt. i would want him to burn for this. but it is not my say, not my life, not my long, resounding, unflinching “hallelujah!” not my certain type of grace. breathless black bodies are a constant, are transcenders of time, a recurring motif. but so too, then, is the black body full of breath, that inhales and exhales faith without ceasing. such is the black body that sees a little bit of god in dylann roof, that prays that he prays for forgiveness, that thinks there to be but one kingdom, and he, too, a worthy subject. the solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave is not a surprise. the black body has always known so well how to die. but felicia sanders hopes her son’s killer finds mercy. perhaps the one thing the black body has always known better is how to love. (a.m.)