a meditation for Jordan Davis

We make this offering against our will.
We lay down another young man,
(Boy. Black boy.)
On this broken altar
To which we seem chained.

This child
Made of dirt and star
        Whom we cannot respirit
        With our wailing rage
We lift up, in all grace, to the sky.

Follow the bright way home, child.
The mystery reminds us
       We do not know death
       We only know this
Mortal ground

This land remains
A field of sunken and bled out dreams
       Pierced through by,
       Bordered by,
Our night terrors of rhythm, of the dark.

We whisper up his river name
As the moon starts to turn away –
Will she raise all these tears into an ocean?
In some way deliver us,
distorted in the pale and shivering gaze?

Forgive us, we let our faith go again.
That resilient weed, hope,
Crept into us, springlike.
We grew fertile, foolish, delusional
We, who still cannot protect our babies.

We are who will not forget
We are who will not forgive
Until black is beloved
In all places –
Even deep within ourselves.

We now and again sacrifice
Flesh, bone, memory, marrow
Dream, son and daughter, future
Though these sweet ripe lives
Mean so little here.

Now take this youth to some other ground,
Fly him to where it is his,
Or when.
Blow him to when a black child
Can stand, and live.

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