(in memory of George Floyd, killed in Minnesota, USA,
by a white police officer, May 25, 2020
He called for Momma, and every momma of every race:
black, white, asian, hispanic, native-american,
rose up to answer the call. But one outran them all:
she and her kind were used to running
from the rabid slave hunter
vicious dogs
through the underground railway
from every street where Jim Crow
deemed them worthless vagabonds.
How many nights in her head had she urged him, “Run, run.
If they catch you they’ll kill you. Take the back streets and alleys
and run, run on home.”
Today she hears him calling “Momma!” and she’s confused:
where is his man’s voice? What terror could so grip him
that he is a child again?
And she’s running, running…
until she reaches the narrow but eternal bridge she cannot cross,
and there he lies, all six foot, six of him, “I… can’t… breathe”
Crushed by the very thing they’d run from all their lives:
four hundred years of hate in a white man’s knee on the neck
of her son-
eight minutes
forty-six seconds … until…
he’s…still.
She knows this kind of stillness. She’s seen it many times.
**************
She’s holding his hand now, “Come on, son.” And as they turn to go,
they hear a sound as of many waters, or a mighty rushing wind:
millions, millions marching around the globe. And the chant
on the wind is beautiful: “Black lives matter! What’s his name? George Floyd!
Justice now!” And there’s hope in their eyes as they turn to each other:
One day soon, one day soon and we’re done with running.