To the Ferguson PD and the NYPD: The Dead Never Knock
I have had this poem in my head for a while. Thought it was time to share:
The Dead Never Knock
The dead never knock.
They barge in during supper
and don't even bother to
wipe off their feet.
They don't need permits to assemble.
They march in, curl up, plop their behinds
in our favorite chairs, prop
their heels on the coffee table,
smoke stolen cigars and eat skittles,
before they shuffle off to the kitchen
and peer in the refrigerator
looking for justice.
There’s nothing for them to eat,
but they look anyway.
“No justice. No peace.”
The dead can’t breathe.
They watch breaking TV news reports
about themselves.
Their eyes are red-rimmed.
“Hands up. Don’t shoot.”
They stare at the screen. They watch
someone’s mama as she weeps and moans.
They see someone’s brother scream bloody
murder at a line of raised shields and batons.
They can’t smell the tear gas.
The dead never move.
They don't have to get up early for work;
they don't call in sick when they can't.
They don’t bother to answer the phone
or text message or email.
They have no ten-thirty appointment,
no meeting across town at two,
no testimony to give the Grand Jury.
They can watch weeds over run the garden,
sleep in if they like, lounge around
in their bathrobes until late afternoon,
leave hairs in the sink, the toilet seat
up, spill on the carpet
or fill the ashtray.
They can burn up the toast, drop crumbs
on the counter, use all the hot water,
drink the last beer.
The dead walk unmolested down the streets
of every city. No one fears what can’t be seen.
No one sees the color of their skin.
No one follows with suspicious eyes.
No cops ask for ID. No one radios for back-up.
No one handcuffs the dead.
No chokeholds, no tasers, no pepper spray.
No SWAT team, no bullets.
The dead no longer see their lives flash before them
reflected in the badges of their killers.
No one makes eye contact with the dead.
Still, the dead are always just underfoot--
they creep up the staircase and
rattle the windows, uplift the roof tiles
at night. They hide the good silver
and crack the fine crystal
or call 911 to report themselves
missing.
When they leave, it’s without warning.
They slip out the door on the darkest
of nights. And there's silence.
The dead do not loot or break windows.
No shadows. No lights.
No mothballs or cold spots; the dead just
depart. The living return to their lives.
Ashes pile on ashes, settle into corners,
become cover-ups and stonewalls.
No memories of unrest. No burned out buildings.
No looters. Nothing to disrupt the day.
Only the cops drawing their guns again and again.
For just when it seems like the dead
have been buried, just when you think they
are all gone for good, as soon as you think
they’ll quit dying, you hear
the familiar old sound: a cop cocks his gun,
and another dead black man lies on the cold ground.
I would be honored if anyone else who wanted to share your thoughts or poems would do so.
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