Contributors * more photos to appear soon

Contributors * more photos to appear soon
Christy Namee Eriksen, kim thompson, Jon Schill

Friday, July 9, 2010

My Son Runs in Riots

Well, another f'd up moment in american history.  My heart and grit teeth go out to the family of Oscar Grant, another victim of police brutality and the legal system.  More info:  

for Oscar Grant & other warriors

I don’t use playpens,
my son runs in riots.

He took his first steps towards burning buildings
and he carried a molotov cocktail in his right,
draggin his blankie in the left gripped tight,

half brushed cotton, half tear-stained satin,
he lets the tail gather the dirt and screams of the street,
he can’t sleep without it.

When I sing lullabyes
we are often running
and he keeps up cause
he loves the sound of twinkle twinkle
little star
to fire alarms.
He think ashes are diamonds in the sky.

I breast-fed for a year,
as recommended,
and weaned him to household chemicals.
We are only as strong as the bomb we mix
and my son’s lungs glisten.

I don’t want another language to be lost
so I whisper the traditions of tamed lions
I grip his wrist
for his attention
I purr the words
how we were told we could not be wild
and i clench his shoulders
and i hold him
and I told him
they said we were not real lions
they said they were not real gate keepers
they said the cage would not come between us
they said this was justice
and i swore for whatever mother this earth was supposed to be and i said,
the truth. is.
we are free.

Unlike me,
he didn’t pause at the thought.
My son stood up
sucked on a switchblade and
took off.

He met men with gray hearts and silver badges
and he has
bullets in his back,
he has
bullets in his front,
he has 56 baton blows, six kicks in his ribs and

when you watch the video
it’s tough to tell whose son it is.

all my children cry tear gas.

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