Improperium

I wrote a poem last night,

about a black child, a white woman and a dog.

Through the entire night this poem didn't make sense,

didn't have enough words, enough heart,

enough poet to build a fence around these truths. 

I wrote to the stars, 

that try as they might will never dry up a little girls tears, 

because stars are just stars, the light is just that, a path, 

and the choice is still yours. 

I wrote a poem last night about a black child, 

the poster child for afro suffering, 

even though a decade old shouldn't mean that, 

shouldn't have hands painted in red,

should see love instead of hate, 

shouldn't be the shadow of a stolen life, imagine herself better off dead. 

She will not make it. Didn't ask for this prison sentence. 

She can't sleep, his hands around her neck still as real as her breath. 

She blames herself, a 10 year old girl,

wishes herself a boy or dead, 

to not relive the abuse. 

To get drunk on her pain, 

cry like she did too many times, 

wonder if her body was his excuse. 

I wrote to the white woman, 

who awaits her chalkline drawn on the concrete floor where her unborn child was lost to his blows. 

Didn't want your sympathy, 

didn't want your truths, didn't want her lifeline to be cut short, 

didn't want him to get mad. 

Her egg shell life cracks each time she thinks of her house, 

her mother's echo in this room now a reality that she lives in, 

a true reflection of family demons finding a home, 

finding the perfect setting for nightmares to not just be dreams. 

She knows this day next year she celebrates her birthday, 

she will not make it. 

She prays her daughter let's the echoes die out, 

should not let his whispers be confined to small spaces, 

shouldn't foster breeding grounds for this family burden. 

I wrote to the dog the witness to life's sins,

silent, content, could only hope to change what primal instincts he has. 

A pain, a sorrow, 

a burden that still feels himself better. 

In a way he let the depression win and so he feels alone, 

powerless, a weakling, 

coward in his ways, just all he'll ever be. 

06/09/20✔️

"Improperium" latin for "Abuse" 

"Ars longa, vita brevis."