I first wrote a version of this poem in August of 2014, shortly after learning of the murder of Mike Brown. I, like the rest of the nation, watched as Ferguson erupted into protest and the steady demand for justice. I write to remember what my heart will never forget. There have been and continue to be more names and more stories added to the historical memory of injustice. Black lives still matter.
The summer of our discontent exploded in Ferguson.
A Black boy shot, repeatedly under the guise of freedom, lay dead in his own blood.
There are no words, just rage.
A casual broadcast of homegrown brutality.
Sons of history and bloody legacy, how do you right the wrong?
There is only the story
split up and punted about.
Say his name.
Mike Brown
18
Black male.
Shot.
They don’t mention that he was loved.
And will not call it murder.
One nation
Unwilling to face up to the truth for which it stands.
Fists raised high.
Justice
Can you hear us?
And so it goes.
Ferguson,
Lord.
Ferguson.
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