Poetry | Double Acrostic
night’s uncanny silence rages even
over sirens’ wailing; no
joke: it’s Justice, dead or fast asleep,
unseeing, oblivious — give her a nudge.
stray paper bits and bullet casings — a
ticket here, a taser there, civics for a cynic.
it’s deafening, deadening, that silence.
can you hear it running, breathing, throbbing like a tomb
electrified with bitter ghosts, an ideal
nation’s spectral hopes, mewling thoughts, a sea
of grieving mothers’ tears, atomic
prayers, despair. To be Black —
estranged from MLK’s prophetic dream — cruel,
asking people to wait ten lifetimes. i
can’t bear this leitmotiv -
eternal sirens’ drowning dying justice -
saying, “it will be okay” (it won’t)
mothers casting pearls
at swine will never be “okay.”
that’s just too high a price
to pay. unjust. and yet, the dream itself burns on —
eternal roar, that fire in the soul that cries,
righteous, above the silence: “no justice, no peace.”