by Jeffrey McCune | special to NewBlackMan
Preface: I hate that the poem I wrote at 7pm is publishable.
Oct 9, 1968
Papa was lynched—
after 7 of 9 recanted:
“He never touched her!”
Yet, the noose tightened—
strangling generations,
reminding all that even breath is not free.
Sept 21, 2011
Ten days after terror,
I hear a man lynched.
The chorus of 7 repeats.
#Dead.
One heart stops,
Voices muted,
People shocked,
Too many ghosts remain.
Helpless.
I sit and hear echoes in my room:
“I am Troy Davis!”
“Too Much Doubt!”
“Power to the People!”
Dead.
***
Does anyone hear the faint cry in the dust?
The soft breath-like whisper,
crying for just…
Is anyone listening?
The innocent screams of young boys and men,
captured by the cyclone of suspicion.
The body drops,
The tears fall,
The free world continues,
while for some it never began.
I swallow…
My God!
My America?
September 21, 2012
Echoes resound.
I listen.
I hear my name.
Loud.
Family Traditions Burn.
***
Jeffrey Q. McCune, Jr. is an Assistant Professor of American Studies and Women’s Studies at the University of Maryland-College Park. He is author of the forthcoming manuscript, Sexual Discretion: Black Masculinity and Politics of Passing (University of Chicago Press, forthcoming 2012).
