Friday Nite Poetry: Catharsis

Explosion

Explosion (Photo credit: Freidwall)

I’ve got a lot bugging me this  week. I meant every word I wrote in my gratitude posts this month, but I really need to get this stuff off my chest.

Self-Beatification: A Liberal, White Past-time

Tell me again
how you don’t see color
when you pray for the police
afraid of beautiful brown boys
waiting for the bus

Tell me again
how we’re all the same inside
how you want to throw a party
to celebrate your suburb’s
new black family

Tell me again
that you are so fair minded
as you walk into your university classroom
convinced all the dark faces were brought
by government quotas

Tell me again
about how progressive you are
how everyone should have the opportunity
to live like you
talk like you
think like you
be like you

but not really

The Result

I dreamed about you
last night,
though it did not
start out
about you,
but about her.

It started with
the crazy shit
she would do
but none of us
ever called
her out for.

It was my brain’s
hyperbole,
I know,
but not by much:
a small child
in her path
and I could bear it
no more.

So I stood between her
and this frail,
innocent thing
and I held up that mirror
she had been so fearful of
in life.

She saw then,
I showed her
how ugly she was,
but also how beautiful,
if she let herself
forgive her past
and herself,
and she heard me.

She heard.

Then you came in
to that home,
my dream home
that was all of our homes,
and saw her tear.
So you did what you always did:
you championed her.

You always were
her white knight.
I think you actually preferred her
a little broken
so you could play the hero
lest she see the real you
once more.

I almost took it again,
almost let you
get away with it,
ready to turn away and walk
but my dream self
was so much braver
than reality.

I threw you
from that back porch
and landed on you,
fists crashing down
like holy instruments
beating the sin from you,
as I stared down
at your stunned
and helpless
form.

Then I woke
feeling terrified,
justified,
even a little dignified,
but mostly mortified
not over what I had done,
but what I never did.

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