Historically
There was a time
When this month
Would flood my feed with poetry
This year
I see mostly grief
Perhaps it’s the echo-chamber algorithm
Reflecting my pain back to me
Maybe in all my moving, I’ve lost my ties to that community
Possibly I’m too stuck on what poetry was to me
That I’m overlooking what it is
Searching for what I think it’s supposed to be
There’s a chance I just can’t handle the art of grief
That writing and reading the depths of feeling would be too much for me
I just want to be on Slauson and Overhill
Drinking a Simply Wholesome smoothie
Surrounded by people that look like me
I hug my husband and tell him I love him
I listen to my son and beam at his brilliance
I check in on my friends
I answer my texts
But at 4am
A poem sneaks into my bed
I want to deny responsibility
So I don’t watch the footage, and cling to conspiracy theories
That way, I can be angry at the enemy instead of God
Instead of my Self for leaving
For all the people I left behind
For all the times I didn’t guide
I neglect prayers for serenity
Filling the ether with offers for another chance to prove my loyalty
Streaming his music like these royalties might compensate for my selfishness
Confirming that my sacrifices will keep my son safe
But asking what it would take to do the same for my brothers, cousins, and nephews in LA
I’m bargaining because I can’t afford depression right now
But it’s 30 minutes before I’m supposed to be at work and I’m in bed working thru the weeds of my identity
Remembering that 2 days after leaving, we got the call from my brother-in-law
The other Uncle of our nephew had been shot and killed on their front lawn
How that could have easily been my husband if we were in the city
Feeling grateful we were safe and together
But also feeling guilty
Remembering attending Oscar’s funeral the first day I returned after my first year away
How the sentence of his murderer brought me no closer to closure
Grateful the news didn’t fall silent for Choirboi
But that only amplified the absence of his voice
How I am only saddened by the possibility another Black man killed Nipsey
That envy can end things
I ache for the trauma in the city
The streets are getting hotter and bodies are going chilly
How will I ever ever be a successful attorney
Haunted by the things I know
Like how the intricacies of my community are not captured in the penal code
Knowing the punishments available don’t keep us safe nor heal our heartbreak
I guess one prayer, one day, one case at a time
Acceptance is on the horizon
Or so the Kubler-Ross model promises
At this stage of grief, one can only hope
Because what I know
At least this week
Maybe until I go home
There’s simply no room for it in this poem
