Category: Kamilah Aisha Moon

by Kamilah Aisha Moon

after the news of the dead whether or not we

knew them we are saying thank you

—W.S. Merwin

A blanket of fresh snow

makes any neighborhood idyllic.

Dearborn Heights indistinguishable from Baldwin Hills,

South Central even—

until a thawing happens & residents emerge

into the light. But it almost never snows in L.A.,

& snows often in this part of Michigan—

a declining wonderland, a place not to stand out

or be stranded like Renisha was.

Imagine a blonde daughter with a busted car

in a suburb where a brown homeowner

(not taking any chances)

blasts through a locked door first,

checks things out after—

around the clock coverage & the country beside itself

instead of the way it is now,

so quiet like a snowy night

& only the grief of another brown family

around the Christmas tree, recalling

memories of Renisha playing

on the front porch, or catching flakes

as they fall & disappear

on her tongue.

They are left to imagine

what her life might have been.

We are left to imagine the day

it won’t require imagination

to care about all of the others.

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Copyright © 2017 Kamilah Aisha Moon
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Kamilah Aisha Moon

To Clyde Johnson, lynched August 3, 1935

Your weight

bows my branch

toward the earth

I was not made for this

I will never be the same

Bent

like a fractured

unset bone

that cannot heal straight

Gnarled in eternal nod

like your bark-colored head

So heavy

our body-breaking hour

Please

forgive me

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by Kamilah Aisha Moon

“Michael Brown, 18, due to be buried on Monday, was no angel [. . .] ”

—John Eligon, New York Times

But wasn’t he?

Archangel namesake

who weeks before saw his fate

etched into thick gray clouds.

Satan chasing, he saw himself

running into the face of God,

wings shrapneled

against future flight under

these skies, this moon.

Another one to hit the ground,

leave us reeling before the Rapture

the faithful still believe in.

Coursing the arterial streets

of cities, his ghost leads holy armies

seeking justice with a heartbeat,

some earthbound salvation.

Michael, the spiritual warrior

& the saint, the chosen

& the fallen. Brown

man-child shattered

in a broken promised land.

Junior, the eternal son

of a brutal, perpetual summer.

They would never paint him

prone & sacred

on any chapel’s ceiling—his hands

so dark & sable unlike

God’s & Adam’s hands, though

in the same image &

weaponless. Yet scrawled

underneath August clouds forever

is the scene his mother

& the world can’t erase.

Weeks before, he called his father at 1 a.m.

after his vision, voice trembling.

Dreaming, he tried to remember

if Heaven was anything like this place—

woke up praying that it wouldn’t be

upon his return.

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by Kamilah Aisha Moon

black men

spun like tops. Temptations

that died in unison

under Alabama sun,

tangled together on lines

spooled around the same tree—

fresh catch.

I wish

they could’ve hummed

to heaven

instead of being hooked                             then flung there

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by Kamilah Aisha Moon

Already well-fed,

they sniff other quarry

to pass the days,

roaming & tracking fear

in fine leather shoes, sneakers,

combat boots.

Back then & now, bloodhounds

walk their dogs,

sic terror at too many turns—

Double-breasted, t-shirted,

uniformed beasts

always on the prowl.

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by Kamilah Aisha Moon

Can’t live here. Can’t live upright now. Just here,

he was. Too quiet, nothing bangs the screen door

or needs new shoes, nothing eats my cooking

or does homework at the kitchen table.

The sky closing, my daughter’s mind collapsing

like her baby brother on that grass. Can’t live

across the street from that gory field, can’t look out

of windows just like the windows some idiot

watched Tamir play from, called in the hit. Can’t bury

my son while they bury his case, bury justice

in loopholes & months of red tape. Can’t bury the cop,

though I have in my mind many times. Can’t deal

with walls, doors. Floors that are too damn clean

of 12-year-old sneaker prints. Can’t deal with over there

& this never being over. The ground howls,

beckons me as his infant cries once did. Footage

loops on & on—Tamir, Eric, Aiyana,

didn’t know murder could look like

wrestling, snuffing bugs, or taking out the trash. Can’t live

yards from the chalk outline near hopscotch grids.

My ears can’t hold the chirping of birds as if

nothing happened. Can’t do it! Lord help me, my child

& mind shot. Always gasping, two-second

discharge, bullet-fast oblivion. Police car

hearse-black. Why is my son not worth pause,

Miranda rights or any other protocol, a bad cop’s day

in court? Can’t have coffee across from the yawning

green mouth swilling his blood or boil eggs aside

that open coffin. Broken hearts bound

by yellow tape. Done living at this address of can’t,

of never again, of not sorry for our loss. Forward

feels pointless; let me live the whole truth now

that my family has been shattered. My head

on this homeless shelter pillow is honest—

there’s no safe haven I could ever own.

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by Kamilah Aisha Moon

Boarding the boats, we risk

Middle Passage riptides

still rolling in,

badged sharks

in blue.

Today we board to march

for Eric Garner.

Hooked by hysterical

arms, he thrashed

like a caught thing

on the sidewalk.

We roil past Lady Liberty.

Draped in a dingy gown,

her smudged face

stares back.

Weeds grasp

her hem.

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by Kamilah Aisha Moon

North Charleston, SC, 4.4.15

Walter Scott must have been a track athlete

before serving his country, having children:

his knees were high, elbows bent

at 90 degrees as his arms pumped

close to his sides, back straight & head up

as each foot landed in front of the other,

a majesty in his strides.

So much depends on instinct, ingrained

legacies & American pastimes.

Relays where everyone on the team wins

remain a dream. Olympic arrogance,

black men chased for sport—

heat after heat

of longstanding, savage races

that always finish the same way.

My guess is Mr. Scott ran distances

& sprinted, whatever his life events

required. Years of training & technique

are not forgotten, even at 50. Even after being

tased out of his right mind. Even in peril

the body remembers what it has been

taught (boy), keeping perfect form

during his final dash.

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by Kamilah Aisha Moon

Mother Emmanuel AME, Charleston, SC, 6.17.15

It was so hot & she promised

we could get ice cream on the way home.

I never saw him at Bible study before.

He didn’t smile & I didn’t want to say hi

because he was a stranger & Mom said

don’t talk to strangers, especially men

you don’t know but Grandma told me to be nice.

—

There was popping like firecrackers.

I looked up from coloring & saw

his mouth was a line & people were

falling, red blooms on pastor’s white shirt.

Grandma grabbed me & we hit the carpet.

“Play dead baby. Play dead.” The words hot

& soft in my ear. We lay real still. Face down,

we held our breath a long long time, longer

than I can even count.

I heard “No!” & “Please,” calling on the Lord.

Where were you, Jesus? We pray to you

all of the time & this is your house!

Click-clack, more pops & screams.

Grandma was on top of me, warm.

Perfume, powder, sweat & smoke

stung my nose. I felt her heart

beating fast, so fast like after I run

but there was no where to run.

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by Kamilah Aisha Moon

I.

Their noises make you think

they are crying or suffering.

They have learned to bow.

Even the fawns bow, centuries

of bowing

in their blood.

They are not considered wild.

Precious pests litter parks

with dung, take over the roads.

Sweet nuisance worth

saving, thinning these herds

is a last resort—once

a capital offense to spill

their endangered blood.

They are so used to humans, it is scary.

II.

Our cries are heard as noise,

our suffering considered

natural. Native citizens,

we are not free

to roam or deemed sacred

like Japanese bowing deer protected

as messengers of the gods.

Nara, Japan is known for its temples,

shrines to peace.

America is known for its churches,

segregated Sundays.

This is not Nara, Japan.

Hunted, it is always

open season. The sight

of dark skin brings out the wild

in certain human breeds.

Bowing, hands up

or any other gesture of surrender

makes no difference.

They slay our young & leave them

in the streets, expect us to walk away

& wonder, after centuries

why we are not used to this—

grieving masses treated

like waste, filthy herds

thinned at will.

III.

To be clear, this is America

& we are not deer

We are not deer

We are not dear

here

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Copyright © 2017 Kamilah Aisha Moon
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.