911

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Jaha Zainabu

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This poem is not about revolution
Or Malcolm or Tupac or revenge
Or an attack on America or even her own injustice
It's not even about Assata
But about a mother who rides the blue line at 6
Gets off every morning at the Imperial station
Is a nurse who loves her son even still
Held him in a light only she and God could seem to see
He was 16 and licorice black with a handsome smile
And perfect teeth
Just like his daddy
And was shot and killed by another man and woman's boy
That heavy on her back somehow not being enough
Today she goes about her days remembering
On the eve of her only child's services
While his body wait alone and cold beyond a comforters cure

His murderer captured only by karma
Maybe
Emptied his body
Spray painted his casket in red letters
Old English font now tattooed on the chest of her memory
This poem is not about the courage it takes to remember
He always kissed her good night
Ate greens with ketchup
Loved fish with his grits
This is not about Rodney King or Daryl Gates
Latasha Harlins or Stacey Koon
Not even about Soon Ja Du
This poem has nothing to do with Watts 1965
Not really
But kinda

In a way it is about a brave little girl out in Montebello
Who was beautiful and 4
Who sat in her room and counted
Dos, tres, quatro, cinco
Loudly under all her pillows
While her father repeatedly stabbed her mother
And then left
And she tearlessly embraced her mother's
Bleeding, dying body
Patted her hand, rocked and said
James te pueden hacer dano
Dios te va hacer bonita
No one will hurt you
God will make you pretty
There are many stories
If by chance they should all be told one day
There will be many more
Even after that
This isn't about La Revolucion Mexicana
I already told you that

Only the revolution that occurs in the souls of us
Who still love the spirits of those of whom
We cannot see
We see these heroes on the bus
On the train
At the light
Honoring the memory of those faces
That may never flash across the evening news
And those faces that do
I pray that when I have passed away
I will have created grand memories enough
To sustain my loved ones well
I pray that in the break of morning clear
They will breathe without having to be reminded
Accepting finally
That there is an inevitable death
That comes with living
Though religions and philosophies do best they can
At explanation
They will not ever have power enough to prevent

Having lived life time over and again
I have found laughter to be truest friend
For therein lies at evil's demise
God within us all
This poem
If indeed it is a poem at all
Is about
Dancing on hurt feet

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