when the state decides to murder its
next black child do not go gentle do not
hold hands and sing we shall overcome do
not turn the other cheek pray but remind
them of the shotgun in your throat
tell them there will be no more do not
tell the mother everything will be okay
it will not her chest will be an empty
rum Barrel a broken whiskey bottle and
over some gospel song she will manage to
go on black folks seem to always do but
honestly who should have to go on like
this
the father will try to be strong he will
fight back tears in public he will cry
in a back room or in a basement or
somewhere else safe like that he will
probably fall asleep listening to Donnie
or Roberta or Nina or someone else safe
like that reimagined the vigils think
about the irony and cutting down yet
another flower to honor that child
beautiful memory pay close attention to
when the state says this is a time for
peace they are admitting when they fired
the gun it was clearly a time of war do
not go gentle do not go into that night
pray but remind them of the shotgun in
your throat become the monster they
always thought you were show them your
fangs your claws your anger the pain the
rage the hurts this hurts it hurts
when the state decides to
murder its next black child remind them
of the whips of the chains of the church
bombings of the lynching the four little
black girls remind them of the white
hoods the burning crosses dogs and water
hose a police batons remind them of the
shotgun and all the ways this hurts
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem