Self-Portrait as a Dead Black Boy
I.
at thirteen for a whole dark season
I was lethal with my pellet gun murdering
minor things that wandered into yard stalking
the thin woods between our house & the highway—
I picked off any bird squirrel rabbit snake
I could track if I had two surprised seconds
to explain the meaning of my hands my instincts
would have been to show you the weapon
to turn hoping you could see gentleness
poised behind the risk—: so when Tamir Rice
was shot X times: the toy pistol he carried
couldn't have killed anything big or small
even if he'd tried:— but of course
as the story goes that math's all wrong
II.
the law among my friends growing up:
whoever's car had the best sound—assuming
they wasn't in trouble with they mamma—drove
we rode the wheels off of TT's grandma's
burgundy hooptie because of how
the bass from its speakers trembled the tips
of our hair & slapped our young bodies alive
with a beat—: so when Jordan Davis
was shot X times: his legs & lungs
& aorta pierced—a citizen who hated
the rattle that black folks can make when
they make it out the house:— all around
America's trespass music fell even now
a different mood than mine hits my ears like rain
III.
I made it to twenty-eight without owning
a gun & then my son burst onto the scene
with thousands of miles between me & my
tribe—so I learned it took just hours to return
loaded & licensed to conceal a new danger
however as soon as I felt that dark
weight tucked against my torso I realized
the mistake—how few & unsafe the scenarios
with me pointing this threat at another
threat to survive—: so now on my knees
I'm preparing my heart to receive the next shots
until a new divinity forbids one more black body
be burned down according to an imagination that feeds
its godliness with fear as seen through smoke
IV.
in my thirties now I buy sneakers that don't
slip off my feet & feel older for the fit
on the way home from getting new pairs
we stop at a local farmer's market &
before exiting the vehicle my boy & I change
into our fresh kicks to feel godly while walking
aisles of shining produce & hand-crafted candles—:
so when Philando Castile was shot X times:
a bullet searing through each year
of his little girl's life in the back seat I can't
see his shoes in the documentary of this dying
but his body slides in & out of his safety
belt as cop keeps weapon trained:—a dark
star stopping the open question of his window
V.
sometimes a sleeplessness
blesses you: in our shared family bed
I lie awake & hear the steady
sonata of my wife & son's unconscious
breath turning our room into
this shore with a mid-night tidal
music I wouldn't want to live
without—: so when
Eric Garner was denied
air for X seconds: the song
& kin of his lungs flattened
above the city's dirty sidewalk
:—let us pray
VI.
on occasion I weep
while watching the living
brown X of my hand move
across the page: swift &
controlled & sometimes remaining
perfectly still—: so I've written
this poem out in longhand
in the best cursive I can manage
under light that bends into something
soft enough to call healthy
none of which can keep me
alive no matter the grace
Copyright Credit: Geffrey Davis, "Self-Portrait as a Dead Black Boy" from Night Angler. Copyright © 2019 by Geffrey Davis. Reprinted by permission of BOA Editions, Ltd., www.boaeditions.org.
Source: Night Angler (BOA Editions, Ltd., www.boaeditions.org, 2019)