A Lament For Jesus Huerta, The Killing Of By The Durham Police Poem by Dennis Ryan

Wednesday morning, September 28,2022; Sunday night, October 2 at 7: 30 p.m. and 9: 06 p.m.

Note: A lament is a poem expressing personal feelings of loss and grief. Laments date back thousands of years, occur in antiquity in Greek, Latin, Chinese and Japanese literatures; and in the Bible; reference the Lamentations of Jeremiah, and David's lament for Saul and Jonathan.

'Love is all you need.' Really? Just love?
Ask Jesus Huerta if you can; ask his family.
Search for his soul—into whatever hell hole
the police threw it, buried it alive, deep down
from our view; into whatever ditch was available
into which they would have pitched his body
had they the opportunity to, then covered it up
and over in a thin blue line of fouled, topsoil.
Mourn his passing body? Hell, no! Weep over
his only soul? Alma solo? No, no, no! 'That's
not permitted here at the station', the police say
ever so politely, bowing to us like so many mainland
Chinese politicians. 'Don't you worry ‘cause
we hold the power, the key to keep his body,
his soul locked down down there in the dungeon,
in solitary, for our pleasure—three meals a day,
and torture, torture him daily like those innocents
at Guantanamo, those who 'live' down there behind
barbed wire, in cages, guns and searchlights guarding
them on the eastern edge of Cuba.' Eastern edge?
Of Cuba? But I thought Gitmo was a part of these—
No, no, of course not; 'we don't torture nobody in
these here United States, the land of the free and
the home of the compliant; I did not say 'complaint'.
Did someone complain about the police? Do I hear
an echo, yours, in my ears? Police echoes in my ears—
lie after lie in super-sized vibration in my poor ears?
To be a police officer—you see—you have to lie,
and lie again, not look, not see, no, not see what's real,
what really happens, just pretend. That's easy! You
just make things up as you go along, go into the report,
use your imagination to your own benefit, right officer?
I mean murderer—you who put the gun in the Hispanic
man's hands after you've killed him. You all right, officer?
After you've checked with your superiors, Chief Lopez
in particular—es mu, muy verguenza— have the Chief say,
with certainty, 'Yes, the poor boy shot himself in the head;
he was so confused; his hands must have hurt mucho, locked
as they were in handcuffs behind his back. Behind his back.
That betrayal. So confusing... that betrayal of your office.
So, so... Tis a pity. Es muy lastima.'Yes, Jesus shot himself
in the head at your behest to clean up your mess, right Chief?
Explain it as such to the public. The public? In total shock
at what happened. Unbelieving. Your bull—. The Bull City.
Durham, NC. People marching, marching in protest, protesting
in front of police headquarters; and you try to send them home?
Chief, have we got you right? Trying to send them home
with a few mischosen, misleading words? Malas palabras?
Cosas malas? Todo mal. Si, todo. (Are the people's protests
growing loud, louder, becoming just too loud for you, Chief,
your cronies, for state legislators who always pass law that
back the police, not hold them accountable for their actions?
Is this hard for you to hear, hard to bear, hard of hearing?)
Durham was once home to Jesus Huerta; now his graveyard.
Once. Once home. Once upon a time. You and I. Once.
Now. Una vez. Ahorra. Now, his family place flowers, once,
twice, thrice, three times a year on his real grave in real time,
whisper real prayers, grave prayers for the dearly departed,
but basically to no avail. No avail. All need avail themselves
of counseling for the shock, the trauma sustained, that your
'honest' officer has wrought. Simple as that, right officer?
Officer? Officer? Turned tail? (Resigned?) Running down
the street now yourself? (Run out of town.) Just don't let, make
sure your fellow officer doesn't unholster his revolver and—
mindread me, Jack, the rest of the way here. Rest. Of sentence. The rest of the sentence. Ours? To say,
'Rest in peace, Jesus.May your soul rest in peace. May
your soul not grow restless, may this poem help a little,
just a little to ease your soul from restless wanderings
of this earth—like so many others, esos otros. Esos otros.
Solo un poco, lamentable. Solo un poco, lamentable. Solo—.