poet Tyehimba Jess

Tyehimba Jess

Indian Combat

We three warriors
were called forth
to be, forever, enemies.
Stolen from marble,
pressed into slaughter,
we never weary. We
seek no asylum except
the perpetual hatchet,
the eternal blade,
the never-ending arrow,
our fists that swallow
our senses till we've carved
ourselves into memorials
for causes long forgotten.
Our fight was forged
by a free brown woman's
brunt, her design for
all our fates entwined
like fingers laced in prayer
for victory, then mercy,
then dug into the Earth
to resurrect our embattled
lives lived just as her own:
pounded into memory
with mettle on stone.

Poem Submitted: Sunday, September 11, 2016

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