A Lament For The Killing Of Jesus Huerta Poem by Dennis Ryan

Wednesday morning, September 28,2022 at 10 a.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 find him; ask his family.
Search out his soul, into whatever hell hole the police
threw it, buried it deep down from our view; into
whatever ditch into which they pitched his body
had they the opportunity, then covered it over
in a thin blue line, covered up, over by fouled,
brown soil. Mourn his passing body? Hell, no!
Weep over the departed, his only soul? Alma solo?
"Hell, no, no, no. That's not permitted here at
the station", the police say ever so politely, bowing
down to us like so many mainland Chinese politicians.
"We hold the key. The key. We keep his body,
his soul locked up down in the dungeon, in solitary,
for our pleasure, three meals a day, torture him
further, like the innocents in Guantanamo, those
who ‘live' down there behind barbed wire, guns,
searchlights east of Cuba." East of Cuba? But I
thought Gitmo was a part of—No, no, I hear your
echoes, police echoes in my ears; lie after lie in
my ears. To be a police officer, you see, you have
to lie, and lie again, not tell the truth, not look, not
see, no not see what's real, what really happens.
You just have to make things up as you go in the report,
right officer? Put the gun in the Hispanic man's hands
after you've killed him, 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, behind
his back. So confusing. So, so... It's a pity. Es muy lastima."
Yes, Jesus shot himself in the head at your behest to clean up
your mess, right Chief Lopez? Explain it as such to the public,
right Chief? The public? In total shock. 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, becoming just too
loud for you, Chief, your cronies, for state officials to bear?)
Durham, once home to Jesus Huerta. Once. Once upon a time.
Once. Now. Una vez. Ahorra. Now, his family place flowers,
once, twice, thrice on a real grave in real time, whisper real
prayers, grave prayers for the dearly departed, 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 take out his revolver and—mindread me, the rest here. The rest. Of the sentence. Ours? To say,
"Rest in peace, Jesus. May you, your soul rest in peace.
May your soul not grow restless, wander, may this poem help just a little, keep your soul from any restless wandering of
the earth like others, esos otros. A little, poor one. Solo un
poco, lamentable. Solo un poco, lamentable. Solo un poco.