– after Marcellus Williams
they killed him in a Missouri jail yesterday. they
took his grey beard & bald head. yesterday
they rained death upon a man i never knew
who told me all will be well, told me
leave my last words to Allah. the state’s Death
met Marcellus & he looked like my father, another
dad gone, the daily dead, once for every day a black
man was innocent, and by my math that is no less than
300 odd years worth of bodies & chairs & injections planted
in the dirt. at the airport drop-off i gave my Marcellus
a stiff hug and forgot to say i love you or thanks for
coming; i drove home the way i assume all our fathers die,
silent sniffles, small smiles, locked jaw. i like to
believe i’ve slipped through the cracks in the
holding cell called America but then i see another
Marcellus, cast out on the roadside all glasses & silent
lips & thick brow digging worry out of me, like my pops
sat silent in my passenger seat.
we thought my uncle Juan died Monday,
but neither of us said this. i paused everything
after the call came in. when pops got done
swallowing tears he told me just play something on the tv.
Stories Gathered by Missionaries, Ethnographers, & Imperialists of Other Sorts
Cuauhtémoc’s Dream
i.
What’s the word for having your feet set
atop flames, patiently outlasting sinister wishes
of the invader and his gunpowder—the same word
frogs mumble as they dally in boiling water.
it can’t be cowardice to escape out
of ropes choking smaller while the executioner watches & holds i
n a smile; we’re building new words for losing
feeling in your soles, for toes becoming comfortable with fire.
Call it optimism: drunken
weekends, a flight to LA, outrunning the plague; all dalliances
wilt, like spears limp against armor glinting orange in heat
that beckons & tears. someone will fix this.
ii.
what virtues follow an expatriate besides romance; survival
makes a poor excuse for blind living. in a country
with mirrors, positivity wouldn’t smell
so much like smoke.
i propose immolation, from heel to crown,
rather than give way or name compatriots & sympathizers; escape runs thru
pale hearts, how kindness strikes & holds fast. victory will
resound new words on tongues lapping lips
when this time ends & the mirrors arrive, friends will be counted
among the hands & feet, soot the new currency, record made
of glasses half full, all pouring over with liquid colored
like freedom from grinding teeth, like caring for another soul
Walter Hill is a poet, game developer by day, and he is always listening. His work has been published most recently in The Ear, Juste Milieu, and Touchstone Literary Magazine. He has most recently shared his process and poetry with emerging poets as Point Park University’s Visiting Poet in Fall 2024. Raised in Bowie, MD, he resides in Austin, TX where he facilitates workshops with the East Austin Writer’s Project. He finds the right words moving amongst a changing city, dancing to music, and helping others.
Featured image: Chiayi Prison, Mk2010, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
