by Sean Murphy.
Who am I to speak of the dead
or even dare to presume
it’s my place to do so?
Because I was there, aware
—even at ten—this was something
nobody would ever forget.
An era when news was on the news,
and word of mouth, always
the best way to convey everything
Bad, or good, or whatever it was
we needed to know, including places
to eat or fight or later, fuck.
A black boy drowned one day:
did it matter; is it important
that he wasn’t white?
It did, in 1980, and it does
today, but I was way too young
to grasp meanings or metaphors.
(A planned community; man-made lake,
Manicured lawns, pre-fab families:
America eating itself again & forever.)
And who’s being served by this
indulgence, however good my intent,
this milestone, this memory?
I’m not sure, but it feels wrong
not acknowledging a forgotten kid
we lost; to recall all our departed
Who endure in the past tense,
reclaiming lost things: days of being
a boy our business, the future not dark
So much as unseeable—a darkness discovered:
like a reflection or a limp body retrieved,
too late, from the bottom of a lake.