February 28, 2016Chillary Clinton Said ‘We Have to Bring Them to Heal’
I mean, I think that’s what she was saying, right?
So how about it then? My hands are soft and ready
for work. Bring me all your sick-and-tireds, all your
bodies bruised all over, it would seem, from birth itself.
Bring me buckets of fried chicken, both original and
extra crispy. Bring me pork chops and racks on racks
of ribs. I need six-packs ad infinitum. Juice boxes
and boxes full of bagged ice. Get me circular tables,
folding chairs, old white robes to use as table cloths,
and one full deck of cards for every set of seats: I’m
throwing a grand old party! Yes, Beyoncé is invited.
Kanye West is invited. I’m sorry if it disappoints you,
but you must understand that my mans needs to heal
with his fellow men, with women who have been hurt
by the things men have done to them, or said, or didn’t say
or didn’t mean to from the dustiest corners of their hearts.
Harm happens, but for what apologies and forgivenesses
never come or word alone can’t communicate completely
or correctly, we invented music; bring me plastic crates
of vinyls. Turntables. Bring me speakers, power strips,
extension cords. Tell everybody coming to load their
trunks with cheap fireworks. Tell them to bring dishes
we can dole out. Solo cups. Plates and utensils. Pillows,
since we’re going until moonrise at minimum, moving
the crowd, shaking our groove thangs yeah yeah. This
is a party, damn it! And I know somebody will probably
make a jackass out of themselves, but that’s all part of
the experience. Somebody will drink too much, but we
won’t let them drive. Somebody’s cousin will say some
reckless shit and have to get put in line: that’s how it goes.
It might get loud around here, but that’s just because we’re
all alive. Blood-wired. We dance battled death and won.
Then we talked about it. Then we cried about it. We tried.
We tried. We tried: everybody’s hands on everybody else.
from Poets Respond